Somewhat Compromising
by Molly4Holmes
Summary: A 'mistake' from Molly's past alters her relationship with Sherlock. First-ever Sherlock fic, so please be gentle.
1. Somewhat Compromising 1

Somewhat Compromising

Humor

Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper/John Watson/DI Greg Lestrade/OC

One-shot

Rating: K+

Humor/Friendship/Romance

This is my very first _Sherlock_ fic, so please be gentle for anything I get wrong, or any OOC moments. I only recently started watching the series on Netflix, and find the Sherlock/Molly dynamic very intriguing. I don't write mysteries, so this is not a mystery by any stretch. Just some humor, some angst, some sorrow and some romance.

* * *

Molly was quite accustomed to seeing dead people.

Not to be clichéd or anything. She hadn't even liked that movie, but then she had never been a Bruce Willis fan. But her day-to-day life involved dealing with dead people. She knew all about the bits and pieces of human bodies—the wobbly bits, the stiff bits, the really ugly bits, the rather attractive bits (usually faces, eyes and hair) and the ordinary bits or even the hilarious bits. Even for the funny bits, she had not started doing pantomimes in the morgue, like a semi-legendary pathologist who had been caught holding a Punch and Judy Show with two dead barristers and a paralegal (also dead).

But to see him dead was really quite startling.

She hadn't seen him in years. He had been a rather nice fellow, really, if a bit too fascinated with the female form. Up until then, Molly hadn't really met a man who wasn't fascinated with the female form, until she had met Sherlock Homes, who seemed immune to feminine wiles. But back then, at nineteen, she had no other point of reference and so the man's interest in _her_ had been fairly typical, if somewhat startling. His proposal, back then, had proven profitable to her and he had been utterly discreet. He had been, and a genuine friendship (of sorts) had formed between them. It had never been even remotely sexual, as he was happily married, but he was an _artist_ and he had declared that Molly had a model's form. After she had stopped laughing, she had agreed. He was, she had long ago realized, the only man she had ever known, besides her father, who hadn't disappointed or hurt her. She and Sir David had kept up correspondence over the years, but his growing fame and travel made keeping in contact rather difficult, but his emails were always funny and full of stories of some of the more bizarre people he had met.

"Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, sixty-four, dead of an apparent aneurysm. He was found in his studio, dead as a nail, his portrait of a bowl of oranges unfinished," Crane told her, making marks on the paper on his clipboard. "Looks like he lived a good life."

Indeed, David did look rather jolly, except for the dead part, and Molly half expected him to crack one of his silly jokes, or draw a goofy picture. She still had one he had done just for her, on her birthday, of an indignant-looking elephant holding up one leg and glaring down at a tiny mouse, saying "You kicked me!" She supposed that little drawing would catch her a pretty piece of cash, but no way would she ever sell it. He had been kind to her, and had treated her with respect. He had even said she was pretty, many times, but she hadn't believed him. He had also pointed out that the little mouse was Molly. "Don't ever let your size make you think you can't fight, little Molly Hooper," he had said. "I know you'll knock 'em in the Old Great Hall."

"I knew him," Molly said. "He taught drawing at where I went to university."

"Oh." Crane frowned. "Pretty cut and dry, then, eh? I've got a thing tonight, so perhaps you… "

She sighed. Wouldn't Crane be shocked to know what Molly Hooper had gotten up to, back at college, so many years ago? "Yes, I'll wrap it up."

"Good little Molly," Crane smiled, putting down the clipboard. She briefly considered braining him with it, but opted against it, as that would mean _two_ autopsies tonight. She pulled on a new set of gloves and went to work. Crane was grabbing his coat and heading for the doors. "It's really so kind of you, but if you'd rather I did it I'd be happy to stay and finish up and let you go on home, I know you've got stuff to do and… _hold that lift_!" He went through the doors at a gallop and she sighed. Good little Molly would finish up, just like always.

* * *

"Hm. Dead artist."

Holmes only blinked once in response. His head was pounding, and he refused to admit that he was catching a cold. Possibly even the flu. Considering he had spent the night tossing up everything he had eaten in the past bloody _year_ was of little consequence now. John had told him to get a flu shot. He had even said, 'Get off your lazy arse and get a shot, or you're going nowhere near my daughter', but Sherlock had put him on semi-mute and resumed reading a fascinating article on maggots and their effect on dead bodies. He could certainly live without coming in contact with soiled nappies.

Molly Hooper had written the article. Back when she was at university, even. He rather appreciated her clear, concise thinking and rather matter-of-fact descriptions of how insects and their larvae could be used to determine time of death, and whether the dead person had died in that very spot or if it had been carried there. He rather liked her terminology: _The field of forensic pathology is greatly dependent on the life cycle of the maggot and various kinds of flesh-eating beetles and bacteria. This course of specialized study has led to the apprehension and conviction of many murderers and has also brought peace and comfort to families and loved ones of the deceased—the natural desire of a family member to know the how and why a person met his or her end is of vital importance to criminologists, who will be able to provide closure to those suffering such loss. Pathologists must thus continuously work toward perfecting this field of study, with the grieving families in mind at_ _all_ _times_." She had even collaborated with a professor of forensic pathology at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, where that exquisitely fascinating Body Farm was found. She supplied proper respect for the dead but did not gush about with sentiment and coolly described the life cycle of the maggot in precise terms, and even managed to give words to the _scent_ of the creatures (" _To myself, the scent of larvae-stage maggots is somewhat akin to wet parchment paper, with a rather musty sharpness added—not entirely unpleasant, but not one anyone would generally relish._ ") and how one could determine at what stage the…

"You don't think it's a case?"

"Overindulgence in brie and red wine. Brie counterbalanced the wine. Had a wife and two daughters who tolerated him well enough. No murder, but if you're that keen, you could always apply to a cheese maker in France as the culprit and we'd have a lovely holiday in… never mind. It would still be _France_ , which would be a fine country were it not infested with French people. Is it any wonder Lestrade's ancestors are from there?"

John shook the paper and continued reading. "All his paintings and drawings are to be sold at auction in two weeks," he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "To pay for death duties. Lots of it's worth a good bit. He did a portrait of the Queen and her corgis."

Holmes moaned and scrambled to his feet, rushing toward the loo. Watson watched him impassively, feeling no sympathy whatsoever. "I told you to get a flu shot."

"Shut up!" Holmes hissed, his head in the toilet.

* * *

 **The next day**

"Why do you constantly feel the need to do that?" Molly asked Toby, pushing the cat off and sitting up, rubbing her eyes. She hadn't gotten home until almost two in the morning, and the cat had awakened her _again_ by placing his over-indulged arse right on her face.

The cat gave no reasons and ambled off toward the kitchen. She went to the loo, scrubbed her face and went to the kitchen. A thump on the door signaled the arrival of the paper, and she trudged out to retrieve it before that old bat next door nicked it. Toby stropped his tail around her leg as she picked up the bundle and casually scanned the headlines. She sat down at her table and thumbed through the pages, not terribly interested in politics but taking in world news and what sorts of sales were going on at the shops and such. She checked what was showing at the cinema (did she really want to see _Shawn the Sheep_? It did sound rather amusing, but she had little pleasure in watching films while surrounded by a bunch of wiggly children) and finally turned over to the arts section.

The headline made her gasp in horror.

 _Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, 64, dead of brain aneurysm. Widow to auction artist's entire collection in two weeks_.

His collection.

His _entire_ collection.

Molly read the paper, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with pure… God Almighty, she didn't know what. Horror? Humiliation?

 _Amusement?_

Certainly not that. He had promised her that the drawings and the painting would not be made public, but his wife hadn't made such a promise, and she had death duties to pay (damned government-funded muggers, Molly thought, not for the first time) and wouldn't care a whit if those items might cause a mousy little pathologist at St. Barts more embarrassment than could even be measured. David had kept the promise, she knew, and she couldn't picture him sitting up at night, staring at any of them and drooling—he had been faithful to his wife and a loving father to his daughters—but they were going to be _sold_. To _someone_. Who might do a bit of research and…

Dear God.

She jumped up and rushed into her bedroom. It took her a few minutes to find her jeans and a T-shirt, jammed her feet into a pair of loafers and barely remembered to pour some kibble into Toby's bowl before rushing out the door. The old bat next door was shuffling down the hall and looked disappointed, though probably just because there was no paper at Molly's door to nick again. "Goin' out, luv?" she called.

"Yes, Mrs. Bat-… er, Mrs. Crewson. Cheerie-bye!" Molly hailed a cab and once settled inside said, very quickly, "Grayson House, 14 Barrow Road, Knightsbridge, please."

* * *

"All I said was that if you had gotten a flu shot you wouldn't be suffering as you are now, you naff git, but instead you're tossing up meals you ate last year and that you are in fact delirious from fever. So yes, you are sick, and no, I am not Paddington Bear come to steal your bloody marmalade!" John growled.

"I'm dying," Sherlock moaned. "I'm dying and Paddington Bear is stealing my marmalade and then berating me for objecting. How would you feel if a bear wearing a silly hat stole _your_ marmalade?"

"You're not dying, and you can't really afford to. It would be quite inconvenient for me to scrape up your remains and Molly would-" He stopped, mouth twisting a little. There was no use bringing up the subject of Molly Hooper to Sherlock Holmes.

The world's only consulting detective was lying on his stomach on his bed, looking paler than ever before, and John supposed his words were now muffled by the pillow Sherlock was holding over his head. Watson shook his head. "Listen, I've got to get to my actual paying job and I certainly don't want to pass your… _ailment_ to Mary and my daughter. So stay in bed, drink lots of fluids, and try not to whine so much. I'm fairly certain Mrs Hudson does actually know how to operate a gun, you know, what with having been married to a drug cartel leader, so I would keep any moaning and complaining to a minimum."

Holmes twitched. "You are cruelty itself, Paddington."

* * *

"And you are?"

Lady Livingstone-Hayes stared at Molly, bewildered.

"Molly Hooper, ma'am. I'm… I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital. I was very sorry to hear of your husband's death. He was a very nice man—he taught me drawing at University."

"Oh. I see."

"I'm sure you're going through a great deal right now, but you see… "

"He was such a dotty-minded man," the newly-minted widow said, wiping her eyes. "But he was so kind. He left all the paintings and drawings to me, see, and told me a few years ago to see to them after I died, but poor man, he never thought of death duties and his debts and… "

"… he has some drawings and a painting that I would really… "

"… it all really has to go, just so I can at least afford a little flat. My daughters both work, you know, but for heaven's sake, I can't expect them to take me in and support me. Poppy has a husband and children and Rosamund works. I don't want to be a burden, and I can't imagine living in this huge old house now my David is gone. Something smaller would be better, I think. The floors are so _slippery_ … "

"… would like to buy from you, ma'am. I understand you're auctioning them off."

"Buy them?" The older woman studied Molly for a moment. "Dear, most of David's paintings are worth quite a bit of tin. He's got his work at the Tate! Plus he's got sculptures and some pottery and glass and even some enamels and miniatures… "

"I know. I know he does, ma'am, but there are some drawings and one painting that I would like to… to buy."

"Which ones?"

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. "The painting is called _The Girl in the Mirror_ and the others are of the same girl in various… uh… poses."

"Oh, dear, they weren't _naughty_ poses, were they? Before David and I married he did play the field a bit… he didn't tell me all the details, thank goodness, but he was no angel… "

"No, they're not naughty, per se, but they are… that is to say, she is… the girl is… naked."

"Oh." The older woman dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief.

"I know this is very… rude of me, to come here, just days after your husband's death, but really... this is important."

"Do you know the girl?"

"Er… yes."

"Is she a good friend?"

"I would say so, I guess," Molly finally managed.

"I will need to talk with my daughters, of course. I'm sure we can come to an agreement. Miss… ?"

"Hooper. Molly Hooper."

"Leave your name with my husband's secretary, Miss Cowan." Lady Livingstone-Hayes gave Molly a guiltily conspiratorial look. "She's _American_ , but she's very smart and with it, and I'm so glad she'll be here with me until the funeral, though she has to leave the country today to collect some of David's pieces in Italy… or was it Ireland? My daughters will also want to put their ore in. Sometimes they're not very nice, my girls, but Miss Cowan can… how do you young folks put it? _Tear them a new one_ , I think. My Rosamund and Poppy are both deathly afraid of her."

Molly knew the interview was over. She nodded and edged out of the art-infested room in the elegant mansion in Knightsbridge. Out in the marble-floored hallway, she peered around, half expecting to see the painting at least, but it was not in sight. She closed her eyes, then turned around and almost bumped into a pretty, well-dressed young woman.

"Hello. May I help you?"

Molly detected the woman's strong American Southern accent. She was a little taller than Molly, and she was dressed in expensive clothes, wore a pearl necklace and on her wrist was a simple silver bracelet that had to be as old as England itself. At first Molly thought the woman was going to be hostile or at least superior, but the woman's expression went from vaguely suspicious to kind and even friendly. She had auburn-colored hair, lovely jade-green eyes and a wide, easily smiling mouth.

"I'm sorry. I didn't meant to scare you. What can I do for you? Were you visiting Lady Livingstone-Hayes?"

"Yes. I'm… I'm Molly Hooper. I was a friend of Sir David's… sort of."

"Oh, I see." There was no apprising look. Only kind curiosity.

"She told me to leave you my number. I'm hoping to… to buy a painting and some drawings of Sir David's, that he did while teaching at university." Molly scrambled in her handbag, looking for something to write on, and the young woman smiled.

"It's all right. Let me get you a card and a pen… you call them Biros, right?"

"Right."

"I've never been able to call them that. But then people wonder why I'm calling it a 'pin'! Even Yankees back home would hand me a hairpin instead of a writing instrument." The woman smiled and went to a priceless-looking Louis XIV table and found a small card and a silver pen. "How did you know Sir David?"

"I was a student of his. I'm hoping to purchase some drawings and a portrait that he did of… of a friend of mine."

"Oh, are you an artist?"

"No. I'm a pathologist, actually." Molly nervously tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. She felt out of place now, surrounded by such opulence and in the presence of this cool, collected but clearly kind-hearted American. "I… I perform autopsies at St. Bart's."

"Really? How interesting. Not for me, of course. I can't even watch _CSI_. I suppose you could put those artistic skills you were taught to some use there. Still-lifes and all." The secretary smiled, and Molly smiled back, but her tension and stress were both doing damage to her usual good humor. "I'm Olivia Cowan, by the way. Sir David's PA these past four years." She handed the card to Molly, who quickly scribbled her name and number on it and handed it back. Olivia handed her another card. "My cell number. I don't have a home number—what's the point? I'm never there. I'm afraid I will be out of town until tomorrow afternoon. I've got to meet with all sorts of people and make all the arrangements for the memorial service _and_ the auction. Sir David's death was pretty unexpected, so we're all caught flat-footed and I've got _scramblin'_ to do. He's got art all over Europe and God knows where else, and it all has to be collected and cataloged. I'm having nightmares about some sculptures of his that we think some Italian prince has on loan and the family wants them back. I've got just two weeks to get it all squared away and gathered at Granville House."

"Yes, I heard there's a lot out there." Molly gulped. A _lot_ out there, and it was all valuable. Last year one of David's paintings had sold in New York for more than a million dollars. "Granville House? I would have though the auction would be at Bonhams."

"I did, too, but Poppy and Rosamund—Sir David's daughters—insist on having it at Granville House. Probably because Rosamund is angling at the Marquess of Canton's son. Though I will admit it's an ideal location and the rooms there can display the pictures so well and it is used a lot in these kinds of auctions."

"Oh. Right." Molly swallowed.

"Listen, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for the painting and drawings for you, but I honestly can't say as I'm sure I'll get 'round to them before the end of next week. But if I do come across them, I'll be sure and call you, okay? I'm sure Lady Iris and the girls will be willing to at least consider any offer you might submit."

Molly nodded. As if she could really offer. She made enough to pay her rent, feed her cat, and get Chinese takeaway once a week if she really pinched her pennies. She sighed. "I performed Sir David's autopsy. At St. Bart's."

Olivia looked surprised. "Did you? That must have been hard for you, having known him. It was hard enough for me, telling Lady Iris after I found him in his studio. He was a sweet, funny man. I've worked with other artists and most of 'em are temperamental divas who think they hung the Moon and should have the right to bed anything with breasts, and most of them have the morals of maggots, but Sir David was very kind. Goofy, but kind." She studied Molly for a moment. "Molly Hooper… I swear I've heard your name somewhere."

Molly swallowed. Her name had been in the papers, after Sherlock's faked suicide. Not even Mycroft had been able to completely quash all the headlines. "I… may have been in the tabloids last year… I sort of know… someone kind of, er, famous… "

"No, not in the tabloids. I don't read them. So vulgar, and full of more lies and fabrications than anything you'd see on MSNBC. Let me think." She closed her eyes, and Molly wondered if she had a mind palace. "Yes! Sir David mentioned a Molly Hooper once." She studied Molly carefully, clearly measuring the real Molly against the one described. "Yes. Indeed. Well." She smiled brightly. "Nice to put a face to a name."

Olivia picked up her own handbag, and Molly saw it was a Gucci. Olivia glanced at Molly's bag and suddenly grinned. "Yours is more practical. I have to carry this about for show, and the strap _kills_ my neck. When I go back home to Alabama, it's a denim bag from Wal-Mart and leather sandals from Goodwill, by Dixie. I hope I can help you somehow, Molly, but the items being offered will all realize very high prices and…" She looked at an exquisite ormolu clock on a table. "I have to be in Rome in… hot galloping drat, less than six hours! I hope you don't mind seeing yourself out, but I have to dash!" She smiled warmly at Molly and rushed out, steady on stiletto heels and breathtaking in Dolce  & Gabanna. Molly stepped out onto the portico and watched the elegant and clearly worldly Olivia Cowan climb into a black limousine and glide away.

* * *

"Feeling better?"

Holmes glared at Mrs Hudson, wishing she would stop screaming.

She shrugged at his lack of response and set the tray down by his chair, crockery rattling _loudly_. He had at least made it back out of his bedroom (God Almighty did it stink in there) to sit and stare at the television. Two fat, slug-like opposing sides in a paternity suit were shouting at each other, while the rather _large_ mother attempted to mediate. He turned it off.

"John said to eat. I'm to force you if necessary."

"You can't force me," he said, narrowing his eyes.

His attention was diverted from Mrs Hudson's own narrowing eyes and hand reaching into her pocket for something by the sight of Molly Hooper standing in the doorway, looking shy and knocking lightly. "I'm sorry… I guess I should… "

"Molly. Grand to see you. Don't even think of using that thing, Mrs Hudson, as it's not legal and I know you have a very tender conscience. Now. _Amscray_."

"What on earth is that?"

"Pig Latin. Scram. Go. Depart. _Leave us_." His gaze didn't leave Molly, even as he spoke to Mrs Hudson.

Shaking her head and mumbling darkly, Mrs Hudson left and Molly inched nervously into the flat, looking around the rather unkempt room. Actually, it looked hideously messy. "Don't you ever clean?" she asked.

"When boredom becomes utterly overwhelming. Then I get John to do it, or if I wish to listen to aimless nattering, I'll get the Hudders to do it. Please sit." She started to sit on the ottoman beside her. "Not there. In that chair." He pointed at John's chair, and she sat down, directly opposite him, knees together, hands clutched in her lap.

He looked terribly pale, even more than usual, and his hair was twice as disheveled as ever and he was just as gorgeous. Perhaps a little… _greenish_ , she thought, but… he was in sweaty pajamas and his long red robe and even now, clearly not feeling well, he was as elegant as… well, Olivia Cowan, come to think of it. Mary had mentioned to her that Sherlock had been ill lately, but Molly had known better than to go visit him. He wouldn't want her.

"Now, what do you need, Molly?" he asked, somewhat pleasantly.

"Oh. Right. Well. I… um… well, see, I have a bit of a problem."

He said nothing. Just settled that cool blue-green gaze on her, waiting. He had, since humiliating her at that dreadful Christmas party, ceased deducing her. He saved his comments, polite or rude, for necessity only and accepted being berated (and even slapped) by her when he deserved it. It was something she didn't let herself dwell on any more, of course, that he didn't return her feelings for him, but he treated her with respect. Aside from those lonely, dark-of-night fantasies she sometimes indulged, there was at least _that_. He didn't see her as a woman, but at least he did see her as a _person_ and not someone he could get away with mocking.

Feminists would say that was the ultimate goal, but as her mother would point out, feminists also wore ugly pantsuits, wanted to outlaw anything _remotely_ humorous ("Why else do you think they have Women's Studies courses at universities now?"), and never received flowers from anybody as a result.

As if I've received that many bouquets of flowers, Molly thought, but she pushed that twinge of bitterness away.

" _Aaaand_ that problem would be?" Sherlock asked, keeping an even tone to his voice.

"Oh. Yes. I… see, when I was at university, I was friends with a well-known artist there who taught drawing and painting and… and he offered me a bit of money to… "

"Assist him with canvases."

"No."

"Clean brushes."

"No."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Can I continue?" she huffed, annoyed.

He nodded, accepting chastisement gracefully. It did strike Molly that anyone else would receive a sharp snipe in return.

"He asked me to pose for some… portraits. One portrait and some drawings in charcoals and pastels."

His gaze was blank.

"See, the artist—Sir David Livingstone-Hayes—has died and his family intends to sell the portrait and the drawings at auction. But see, he promised me he would never exhibit them, but I suppose he didn't think much of _dying_ at the time, and he apparently had some rather largish death duties and the family is going to auction them off."

His gaze remained blank. Molly drew her breath, wondering if he was deducing her now. She knew she was wringing her hands anxiously and that her face was pink—anybody could see she was rattled and nervous.

"I would much rather take ownership of those items. But I don't have the money. His widow told me that she thinks they're worth a pretty penny and… really, Sherlock, could you at least _react_?"

"What am I reacting to?" he asked slowly, keeping a steady gaze on her.

"The portraits."

"I'm sure they're fine portraits, Molly. I'm fairly safe in assuming that they are quite respectable: you strolling through a garden in Victorian garb, or sitting in a sunny glen reading Tennyson, or perhaps you were dressed up like Guinevere knighting Sir Lancelot or… "

"Naked. I was naked."

"…sitting on a pony or perhaps… _what_?"

"They're _nudes_. I'm… nude. In the paintings and drawings, that is. Naked."

"Na—… " Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared at Molly, blue-green eyes taking on a shade she had never seen before.

"Yes!" she snapped, annoyed. "Naked. In the buff. In my birthday suit. I was _naked_. He gave me a good bit of tin for it, too, and it paid for a lot while I was at university—in fact, it covered my rent, food and groceries for almost two years—and he promised to never exhibit them… I never knew, exactly, why he promised to not sell them or exhibit them, but he promised without me even asking. Perhaps he saw how much I was struggling at the time. I don't come from a rich family by any means and I only took the art class because I was getting so… so _burned out_ on pathology and looking at slides and studying the life-cycle of the scarab beetle and all the rest and I needed a break, you know? Something _else_ to do, and he said I was relatively good at drawing people, particularly faces, but he thought I would be a good model, too, so… "

"Model," he said. Not a question or a sarcastic edge. Just a statement.

"Yes," she said tightly, lifting her chin a bit.

"Go on." His gaze did not leave her face. Didn't even travel downwards, like any other man would do. Of course, he was not like any other man.

"So I posed. Several times. He did a lot of sketches—nine in all—and one painting."

"Pastels?"

"Oils. The sketches were charcoals and pastels, but the portrait was in oils. It's called _The Girl in the Mirror_."

"Ah. Right. Go on."

"But now he's dead and his family is going to _sell_ them. At an auction." She looked at Sherlock, daring to meet his gaze, and she saw nothing really clear there. Not mockery or amusement or even sympathy. Just… curiosity. "A public auction, Sherlock."

"I see."

As if you'd really want to, she thought, anger bubbling up and carefully tamped back down. She would bang pots and pans at home, later.

"People will recognize me. My mother will see them."

"This would be a high-end auction, Molly. Only very posh people would be attending. Only those sorts of folks would see the catalog, if one is distributed publicly or online. I don't see why you would be so upset." He paused, editing his thoughts, because… well, he did respect her, and their trust was mutual. "Not to speak ill of you or your family or the company you keep, obviously, but you don't travel in those circles."

"I don't want people seeing it. Or them… seeing _me_ , that is."

"So why did you pose nude?" he asked, and she saw a tiny flicker of something in his eyes, but only for a moment. It was gone before she could really catalog it.

"I needed the money and I guess I was tired of being 'Good little Molly'," she answered, spreading her hands on her lap. "I suppose I wanted to be able to say, for once, that I could do something out of character but that it would still be _mine_. I don't know. I can't explain it. Sir John promised me he'd never sell them or put them in an exhibit, and he kept his word, though I can't imagine they'd be worth anything anyway. He… I guess he wanted to help me. He said I was quite good at drawing, but would make a good bit of money if I posed for him, and so… so I agreed."

"Indeed."

She held his gaze, refusing to let him embarrass her.

"And you came to me for…?"

"Well, bloody hell, Sherlock, certainly not for moral support!" she snapped.

Had she looked a little closer, she would have caught a glimpse of _hurt_ in his eyes. But he covered that by taking a sip of his tea.

"So where do I come in?" he asked, after carefully settling the beaker back on the table by his chair.

"I was hoping you would buy them for me, and I could pay you back over time."

Silence. Sherlock stared at Molly. Outside, a police siren screamed by, and once it was gone it was replaced by a dog barking. Someone finally shushed the dog and the only sound in the room was a clock ticking. Molly clutched her hands together and pursed her lips. He continued to just sit there, staring at her.

Finally he cleared his throat a little. "You want me to buy nine nude drawings and a nude portrait of you at an auction."

Suddenly she realized what she had just asked him. _She had just asked Sherlock Holmes, who knew she had a hopeless crush on him, to attend an auction (with other people around) and make bids on an oil portrait and nine drawings of her in the buff. To shell out money for pictures of_ _her_ _. He wouldn't shell out a shilling for a snapshot of her in her best frock and fascinator._

Had she lost her bloody MIND?!

He was probably doing all he could to not laugh, but because he did respect her, at least a little, he was keeping a straight face. His self-control was, after all legendary.

"Oh my God," Molly gasped, mortification making all the blood drain from her face. She stood up, which launched Sherlock to his feet, though that effort seemed to make him a bit wobbly. _Respectful toward the person, indifferent toward the woman._ "Oh my God… I cannot believe I… oh my God! What was I thinking?!"

Sherlock looked like he might say something, but suddenly he made a strange gulping sound, gasped, lurched away from her and staggered quickly toward the loo, mumbling something that sounded like 'I apologize', but that was a little too much to hope for. Molly grabbed her handbag, mumbled her own 'I'm sorry' and fled. She didn't hear Sherlock retching or his shouted "Wait!" She was already on Baker Street by the time he emerged from the bathroom, apologizing and telling an empty room that he had the flu and that his stomach had declared outright war on him. He went to the window and watched as she climbed into a cab and rolled away.

"Damn!"

* * *

The next day:

 **Come post haste to Baker Street** – SH

 **What? Why? Do I need to bring back-up?** – GL

 **Because in spite of past indifferent examples of any discernible talent at criminal investigation, you are rather necessary in an upcoming course of action**. - SH

 **Good God, are we invading Normandy?** – GL

 **No. Far worse. We are going on a visit to Knightsbridge.** – SH

* * *

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street at the same time as John and Mary Watson, and the three of them were mystified together as they climbed the steps up to Sherlock's flat. He greeted them at the door with a harried expression and a mumbled 'Thank you, no' when Mary offered to make him some tea. He sat down, crossed his knees, and folded his hands in his prayer pose, thinking.

"All right," Watson said after several moments of tense silence. "Why are we here?"

"Because we are on a mission," Sherlock finally intoned. "A rescue mission, so to speak."

"In Knightsbridge? What, somebody kidnap Prince George?" Lestrade asked with a grin.

"No, Graham, and if you've nothing useful to say, you will please restrict your comments to the weather. We are going to rescue some… items that belong to someone very important."

"Somebody nick something from Mycroft?" John asked, looking a little confused. Mary, having left their daughter in the care of an eager teenaged girl from next door, looked relieved to be out of the house and onto something aside from nappies and three a.m. feedings. Just the same, she was as bewildered by Sherlock's behavior as John and Greg.

"No. MI6 couldn't nick something from Mycroft. I could, but that's another death threat. Someone far more important than him, actually, requires these items be returned to her immediately. We need to find a way to get our hands on these items."

John pondered carefully. "Um… I thought Irene Adler was dead… "

"Not her!" Sherlock snapped. "Good God, John, do you think I'm that shallow? No, indeed. These items belong to… a client."

He was answered by three blank stares.

"There are certain… portraits, shall we say, of this client—a young woman—that she would rather not have… publicized."

"Portraits?" John asked.

"Nude portraits, actually," Sherlock finally ground out, picking up his cup of tea and taking a calming sip, but John didn't miss a slight tremor in the man's hand.

"Really? Where?" Lestrade asked eagerly, and was met with three appalled stares. He looked chagrined. "Come on. Three of us here are human." He scratched the back of his neck, and they all continued to stare at him. "What?!"

"Nude portraits. Well, actually, nine sketches in charcoals and pastels, and one nude portrait in oils," Sherlock elaborated, after shooting another indignant glare at Lestrade. "She has asked that I retrieve these… items and return them to her, and I intend to do so by any means necessary."

"They're to be auctioned?" John asked.

"Yes. Apparently, from what little information I have been able to glean from the internet, they are to be auctioned at Granville House Tuesday after next. There is no catalog online so far, _Greg_ , so at this point I do not know of these items' estimated value, but I am keeping an eye… I am monitoring… _watching_. This will be a high-end auction, as these will be the entire collection of Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, so I can only estimate that they will all bring a posh crowd in and they might all realize a rather high sum each."

"Well, then, send one of Mycroft's boys over to snatch them up, if it's that important. She must be high up in the Government, then? Royalty?" John said, sitting back and crossing his knees.

"I will not have Mycroft or his _boys_ looking at nude pictures of M—… of this client. She is a very respectable young woman and has a personal and professional reputation to maintain," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "She is not a very public person, but she is of vital importance to… to… public… safety."

"So… it'll be us… boys?" Lestrade asked.

"And girl!" Mary piped up, grinning. She caught Sherlock's angry scowl and tamped down her laughter. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself. How do I help?"

"I will apprise you of your roles in the coming days. Graham, I will require your presence tomorrow afternoon at Grayson House. In the meantime, I will need to shower and… oh my God, is that vomit on the floor?!"

* * *

 **The next day**

"Why the bloody hell am I wearing a posh suit like this?" Lestrade growled at Sherlock, but he was ignored as they marched up the steps to Grayson House and Sherlock rang the bell. They waited. "I feel like a bloody butler!"

"I need you to be a distraction. Turn on the charm, if you've got any." Sherlock straightened his cuffs and forced himself to relax. He had spent the past night going over Sir David Livingstone-Hayes' profile—he was a prolific and talented artist with a knack for painting anything and bringing his subjects to life. Also, for the past four years, his personal assistant had been a Miss Olivia Cowan, late of Mobile, Alabama, a former model and a talented watercolor artist herself.

"And what will you be doing?"

"Well, if I'm lucky, stealing."

Lestrade was about to issue a stream of blistering epithets when the door was opened by a lovely young woman in a pink and white dress. She studied the two men, brow furrowing slightly. "Good afternoon. How can I help you?"

"I'm… uh… er… " Lestrade started.

"He does occasionally remember his name. I'm slightly better at it, though I'm sure he'll come 'round to coherent speech shortly. Sherlock Holmes, ma'am. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Olivia Cowan," she answered. Sherlock took her hand and kissed her fingers, and she looked amused. Lestrade finally recovered himself.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, ma'am. Scotland Yard."

"See? I was right. He does come 'round eventually," Sherlock said. "I'm sure that some day he'll perfect the concept of 'fetch' and 'heel'."

Her eyebrow lifted. "So the famous detective and the… "

"Considerably less famous detective," Sherlock nodded. "What a lovely accent. You are from… ?"

"Mobile, Alabama, sir," she said with a smile. "Are you here on some sort of business? I'm afraid Lady Livingstone-Hayes is napping, poor thing. These past three days have been very trying."

Lestrade was enchanted. He couldn't keep from staring at her—she had silky red hair, amazing green eyes, clear roses-and-cream skin, and a body Venus would kill for. And he had always been a sucker for a Southern drawl. Ever since Andie McDowell in _Three Weddings and a Funeral_.

"Alabama. Lovely state," Sherlock nodded. "Antebellum mansions, quiet beaches, wonderful seafood, world-class American college football… "

"You've been there?"

"Guide books." He was reading her carefully. _Devout Christian. Conservative. Well-educated, well-read, well-informed. Excellent manners, efficient, organized, tough-minded, kind. Perfect posture—attended finishing school. Likes to fish. Expert horsewoman. Prefers to go barefoot. Not a lot of makeup, natural beauty. Extremely old Southern family. Member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Roughly thirty years old, never married, youngest of four or five children. Knows art and music. Silver bracelet—rarely removed, so clearly a gift from a loved one who died long ago. Proficient pianist. Has a right hook like a_ cannonball _._

She looked amused. "So I'm only assuming you're here to look over some of the items that will be offered at Granville House?" she asked, stepping aside and letting the two men in. "We're still in the process of cataloging, I'm afraid. Everything's scattered about the place, and I just got back from Rome an hour ago and am quite tired of having my bum pinched, though I should say the food was wonderful."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who was still staring at Olivia, who was definitely glomming on _him_. "Yes," Sherlock said, surprised to see that the woman found Lestrade rather satisfactory, though he really couldn't understand why. "I have always admired Sir David's works and am shamelessly using my celebrity to obtain early access to the items being offered."

"You're a celebrity, Mr Holmes? I think you're more _notorious_. Didn't you fake your own suicide a year or so ago?" she asked, in that I'll-sound-as-sweet-as-honey-while-I-smack-you-with-a-frozen-mackerel accent of hers. Sherlock had heard that Southern belles were bulldozers in organza and kidgloves. She certainly didn't seem to be at all intimidated by _him_. Her ancestors had survived Reconstruction, carpetbaggers and Hare Krishnas taking over the plantation houses, and she had obviously survived her own troubles.

"Necessity does breed… er… "

"Deception?" she smiled. "Of course, I understand it was all for a particular cause. I've heard about that Moriarty fellow. Back home we'd say he needed killin'. Just too bad he isn't actually dead."

"Ah. Yes. Well… "

"I've lived here in England almost five years now. Aside from the inevitable weight-loss, I've kept up with the local chatter." She smiled at him. "But I don't mind you looking through the items. There's many downstairs."

"Thank you. Gr… eg is actually the one who is interested in picking something out. A gift for his wife."

"Ex-wife," Lestrade said quickly, never taking his eyes off Olivia, and Sherlock was surprised to see that she didn't look any more pleased to hear he was divorced. "My wife… er… "

"Left him. Cheated on him, the cruel… harpy," Sherlock said, deciding that in her sincerely held religious convictions, she might not have such a lax attitude toward divorce. "Marriage is over and done, and Inspector Lestrade was the innocent party, but her birthday is coming up and he wants to get her something extremely valuable that she will have to insure and be terrified of damaging for the rest of her life and could never sell at current value. He can't afford to buy her a house, after all, on his rather meager salary."

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows. Olivia's expression softened just a bit, and Sherlock waited until her back was to him again before he gave the detective a 'thumbs up' and a grin. Lestrade offered Olivia his arm, and she smiled and accepted, linking her arm through his. They strolled easily down the marble hallway, chatting amiably, and Sherlock trailed slowly behind them, scanning each picture on the wall. He recognized none of the naked women in the paintings, and when Lestrade and Olivia turned a corner he backtracked and trotted up the stairs.

* * *

"I swear to God, I nearly pissed myself," Lestrade said, watching as Molly carefully sliced up a brain. "He was upstairs somewhere, doing God knows what, and then suddenly a car alarm outside went off and he comes _flying_ down the stairs and is out the door before I could even get that woman's number."

She looked up at him. "What woman?"

"Haven't you been listening?" he asked. He couldn't bear to look at the dissection of the brain anymore and turned away to look toward the countertop, but winced when he saw a set of shriveled, chopped-off fingers sitting on a set of scales. "Sherlock—he was upstairs at that artist's house, snooping around, trying to find a painting and some drawings. I don't know if he found them, but he hasn't said a word to me so far. Just demanded I drive him back to Baker Street and give him a sedative."

Molly turned around and looked Lestrade, but her back was still to him. " _What_?"

"Yeah. We were at that place in Knightsbridge. Sir David Livingstone-Hayes. Holmes got me to distract that pretty Southern bird—Olivia's her name—and he went skulking about upstairs. He wouldn't say if he saw the pic—"

Molly slammed her dissecting knife down and whirled around to face Lestrade full-on. "He did _what_?!"

"I just told you."

To say that Molly was furious was an understatement. Besides that, she was very close to a very sharp knife, and Lestrade took a careful step to the side, not wanting to be too obvious, but she had a look of murderous chaos on her face that put fear in his heart. He had faced down murderers, rapists and children having tantrums in grocery stores and this was downright terrifying.

"That bloody arsehole!" she snarled. "I'll kill him!"

"Now, Molly, murder is not advisable. I've wanted to kill him a few times myself and where are you going?" he called, but she was already pulling off her labcoat and storming out of the room, yanking the door open so roughly that she nearly tore it off its hinges. Lestrade stood there a moment, looking at the brain before blinking and shaking his head.

"Well. Better you than me, mate."

* * *

"A car alarm? You are joking, right?" John asked, trying desperately to keep from laughing. The image was just too much to even think about—Sherlock Holmes, freaking out over a _car alarm_. Honestly, he wished he had been there.

"I pulled a closet door open and suddenly _WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO_! I nearly had a heart attack! I couldn't find an off-switch and decided it wasn't prudent to stay there any longer." Sherlock was pacing up and down, still looking manic. "It was only when we got outside that I saw it was a bloody car alarm. What's worse, I didn't even see the portrait or the sketches… I… I mean, I didn't see the… I didn't find them!"

"This Very Important Woman… you're not going to tell me who she is?"

"Certainly not. It would be… indiscreet. The fewer people who know of this situation, the better."

"I see." John shook his head. "So what are you going to try next?"

"I guess we'll have to get Mycroft to send some of his boys to the auction and… _purchase_ the portrait and the sketches." He stopped, clearing his throat. "No, I'll go to the auction and buy them. I don't want Mycroft involved." His eyes narrowed as he looked out the window. Mycroft barely knew Molly and was always polite to her, but he didn't want his brother knowing her _that_ much better. Polite honorifics and seeing to her continued employment at St. Bart's was the proper _extent_ of Mycroft's association with Molly Hooper, so far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Livingstone-Hayes' stuff is pricey," John pointed out. "Sure you can afford it?"

"I'll do what's necessary."

"Well, I did suggest you call in a marker from Mycroft," John told him. "If this woman is high up in the government and has a reputation, then..."

"You bloody tosser! You stupid, stupid _oaf_!" Molly shouted at Sherlock as she stormed into the room. He recoiled and actually took a step back, almost knocking himself down onto the couch.

"Sherlock, I believe you have company," John said with a smile, not even turning to look to see who had come in. It could be anybody.

"Now wait a minute here… " Sherlock began, quickly regaining his composure. "Molly, calm down, let me explai—"

Molly went around John, barely even acknowledging him. "Explain? I tell you something in strictest confide—"

"For God's sake, Molly, shut up and sit down. John, please leave."

Watson stared at his friend, bewildered, then looked at Molly, who was still standing, hands on her hips, pure mayhem in her eyes. For some reason, the sight of her looking ready to lay into Sherlock Holmes reminded him of a tiny bantam hen taking on a regulation size fighting cockerel and giving him what-for. Feathers flying. Squawks of pain. Quite a sight to see.

He had no doubt that little Molly could do some damage. He suspected she wasn't above fighting very, very dirty.

"All right. Leaving. Call me when you come up with your next plan for this Very Important Person. Er… Molly, would you like some tea? No? Okay. See-you-'round-have-a-lovely-day-bye!" John was happy to bow out and hope that Mrs Hudson would overhear some of this conversation and report it, blow for blow. He quit the room, closing the door behind him. Molly didn't even glance away from Sherlock, but continued to glare at him.

"How _dare_ you! How dare you involve anyone else! I came to you thinking that perhaps—just _once—_ you might behave like a human being and not some bloody emotion-free robot and _help a friend_ , but apparently I never was all that important to you, was I? Just good little Molly, the wallflower, ready to fall over herself to get you your bloody coffee, you heartless, selfish, arrogant _bastard_!" She stamped her foot, tiny fists clenched, and Sherlock was glad he wasn't close enough for her to kick. He knew she would bring him down like a sack of wheat.

"Are you finished?" he asked mildly.

"Not half!" she shouted.

"Well, now that you need to catch your breath I should point out that I never told anyone your _name_ with regard to this particular case and your naked misadventures. I informed them instead that a rather important person had hired me to retrieve a few somewhat compromising pictures by any means necessary."

"Am I supposed to bel—wait, what? You didn't… " She shook her head. "Important? I'm… important?"

"I suppose there is no such thing, really, as consulting detective-client confidentiality laws of any kind, but I personally do not discuss such matters with anyone without the express consent of said client, and since at no point did you indicate such consent had been given, and since our consultation was without John or anyone else present, I gathered that you wished for me to be discreet."

She exhaled, slowly, then finally sat. He talked like that when he was being evasive, she knew.

He sat down again. "And by the way, at our last meeting, when I rushed away to throw up, it was not because… it was not because of anything you had said. It was because I had some sort of hideous Oriental parasite building a pagoda in my stomach lining. But that has been, for the most part, cleared away and so now we can discuss the details of this case and arrive at a satisfactory solution."

"I can't hire you."

"True. You can't afford me."

She blushed and looked down at her hands, which were still balled up into fists. "But if you were to at least obtain the pictures, I could pay you back in time. I don't know how much they'll realize at the auction, but… "

"Far more than you could afford to repay in your lifetime, and you needn't worry about such things."

"But Sherlock… "

"I don't mind doing _pro bono_ work at times. Keeps me sharp and makes me mind the bank balance. And by the way, how did you find out I had spoken to anyone on the matter?"

"Greg came to see me and told me about… your little stunt at Greyson House. You… became somewhat rattled by a car alarm."

He frowned at her, making a mental note to poison Lestrade, but he had to admit that the situation had been rather… _humorous_ , now that his heartbeat had returned to normal. "I went snooping about upstairs while Graham… "

" _Greg_."

"…chatted up some admittedly rather charming American woman. I searched through a couple of rooms full of paintings and finally came across a closet. Just as I opened the door, some bloody alarm started blaring and I couldn't find the button to switch it off." He looked a little chagrined. "Got a bit… "

"Freaked?"

"I don't care for that term. Disconcerted would be a better description."

"And so you ran down the stairs yelling for Greg to run?"

"I may have mentioned to him, in a totally relaxed and very offhand manner that we needed to leave."

"While casually strolling down the stairs."

"Lighting my pipe and checking the _Racing Post_ , yes. I can assure you, I was in no hurry. Once Lestrade and I were outside again and noted that the alarm was actually from a car, I very serenely hailed a taxi, went home, watched an episode of _Frasier_ on Netflix and took a nap."

She giggled and Sherlock had to bite back a grin. Looking back at the whole rather embarrassing affair, he had to admit, it was rather amusing. Besides, seeing Molly Hooper sitting there, laughing heartily and not angry at him anymore, made him feel…

Well, it made him feel…

Rather…

All right. Fine. It made him feel good.

He had always liked to see her smile. Almost as much as he liked seeing fire in her eyes. But yes, her smile was something to look forward to, every day.

* * *

 **The next day**

John pushed the door open very carefully and was relieved to see Sherlock sitting at his desk, face lit by his laptop, but he wasn't reading. Instead, he was staring into space, thinking. "Bloody mind palace," John muttered.

"I've got a good bit of money, you know," Sherlock said, out of nowhere.

"Yes, and that makes me feel so much better about my mortgage."

"But do I have enough money to buy… "

"I'm sure you do. Or you sound like you do."

John sat down, sorting through the mail. Holmes never bothered. It was Watson who made out the cheques and settled all debts for Sherlock, because the man thought nothing of such things. John knew his friend did indeed have a nice lump of tin in the bank, and was not an extravagant spender. In fact, he tended to be a tad… _thrifty_. Well, actually, cheap. Considering he never remembered to buy groceries and supplies of any kind, it was a wonder he ever had clean clothes, dishes or food in the flat. Heads and other body parts in the refrigerator, however, were regularly to be found. He knew never to just grab a beer bottle and take a swig, because it might contain fluids one didn't commonly drink unless one was in a desert and under severe duress.

"I do. I might need a loan, though."

"Talk to Mycroft."

"I would never."

"Then I guess you'll have to empty your account. What's the woman's name?"

"Bugger off."

John smiled. "Not a pretty name. Member of the Birmingham Buggeroff family?" At Sherlock's scowl, he grinned. "Someone I know?"

Sherlock's expression clouded and he stared at the screen. "Granville House is a Grade One stately home. Home of the Marquess of Canton."

"Mm?" John blinked, not sure what Sherlock was talking about, but he was sure his friend would get to it. He picked up the paper, shuffling to the sporting section.

"Frequently used as an auction venue. High end stuff." Sherlock was clicking on his mouse, clearly searching. He rubbed his eyes and slapped the laptop shut. "I'm going out."

"Ah, the nude portraits are being sold there, I'm guessing. Nude portraits of someone I may or may not know. Ex-girlfriend?"

"Mine or yours?"

John glanced up at his friend, who was pulling on his scarf and Belstaff. Sherlock looked away, still distracted.

"You need me to tag along?"

"No."

Sherlock paced out the door, an intent expression on his face. John sighed and resumed reading his paper, glancing over at the laptop. If Sherlock were agitated enough, he might have forgotten to lock the laptop. A few clicks and John figured he might know the identity of the woman in question. But as soon as he started to stand up, he decided he had better stay off it for now. If and when Sherlock wanted to reveal the information, he would, and if Sherlock was as protective of the client as he seemed to be, then it was for a reason.


	2. Somewhat Compromising 2

Sherlock stared up at Granville House, a vast Victorian Gothic pile covering roughly three acres under one roof. The Marquess of Canton's ancestors had added to the palatial estate over the centuries and turned it into a showplace. The family still lived in the mansion year-round, and were known for not only their exquisite taste but also their friendliness, dedication to Worthy Causes (like a number of crisis pregnancy centers in London and battered womens' shelters) and lack of pretension. Sherlock had known the Marquess's eldest son at school and while they hadn't been friends (of course), Sherlock had found him to be a good-hearted and genial fellow.

Frowning, he finally went to the door and pulled on the bell chain. A moment later, the door was opened by a tuxedoed butler, who eyed Sherlock for a moment before nodding. "Good day, sir. How might I assist you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "I would like to speak with the Marquess."

"I'm afraid he is not at home."

"'Allo, Niles, who's here?" someone called from inside. Sherlock took a step back and was surprised to see Lord Alex Norris limping out to greet him. He studied the slightly-younger man for a moment. _Old injury. Horse-related, likely. Well-groomed, but not fussy. Cheerful disposition. Rich as Croesus. Currently dressed like a rag-picker._ He looked at Norris' clothes—rough old shirt, battered jeans, dung-crusted boots. He looked like a Dales farmer, not the heir of a Peer of the Realm. Sherlock vaguely recalled that the Marquess was a farmer, and a dedicated one at that. Apparently his son was following in his dear old dad's footsteps. "Is it the veterinarian?"

"No, sir. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock faked a smile. "I'm interested in the items being offered in the auction of Sir David Livingstone-Hayes' collection."

Lord Norris grinned, and Sherlock noted there was cow dung on the man's boots. "Oh, I remember you. We went to school together."

"Right," Sherlock nodded curtly. "May I see the items being offered?"

"Sure. Can't see why not. I don't recall you being in the artsy crowd," Lord Norris said, admitting Sherlock into the front hall. The detective looked around the vast room, noting the double set of curving staircases, the priceless crystal chandelier hanging above, the inlaid compass design set in the middle of immaculate black and white marble, and the Louis XIV chairs lining one wall. "Sure you don't want to join me in the byre? I've got a young beast trying to push out her first calf, but it's coming out arse first, and I'd think that's far more interesting than looking at weird sculptures and pictures of drunk naked girls."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _Drunk naked girls? His Molly drunk_ and _naked?_

"Thank you, no. Perhaps I'll pencil that in when I've lost my mind or my sense of smell."

Lord Norris grinned. "You're missing out on some jolly fun. The stuff is all in the picture gallery through that door yonder. Good day." Norris rushed outside and Sherlock waited until the butler also left before heading into the next room. He was stopped cold by what could only be called sensory overload.

Hundreds of paintings and sketches were displayed on the walls and on easels throughout the enormous room. Also displayed were carvings, sculptures, pottery and tiny miniature paintings of various animals and flowers set up in display cases. Sherlock scanned the room slowly, trying to separate it all in his mind and focusing on the task at hand. But that was difficult, particularly when he came across a 'sculpture' of what he finally decided was of a helicopter that had crashed into a Volkswagen Beetle and were both then beaten savagely by enraged and very determined football hooligans. It was called, without a trace of irony, _Holes in the Soul_.

All he could do to calm down was growl at the sculpture and move on. He paced along the easels first, eyeing each one coldly. None of the nudes were in any way provocative or pornographic. In fact, there was a sweetness and innocence to them all, and only the most perverted person could call them anything other. There were no children among any of the nudes, either. All were of adult women, of varying ages, and all of varying degrees of accepted terms of 'beauty'. They were all done tastefully and respectfully, and Sir David had brought out the character and essence of each woman in question without objectifying her even a little. He had, in the course of researching the artist, found an interview where the man had said that he always wanted to show how the woman really felt about _herself_ , not how anyone else might feel about her, and thus did his best to see that her soul was shown, not just her body. Holmes had to admit that Livingstone-Hayes had fulfilled his purpose pretty well in that.

He was about to give up when he finally saw it. _The Girl in the Mirror_ , the name of the portrait written in a clear, blocky script on the bottom of the simple wood frame. The portrait—about 16x20 in size—was displayed on an easel. He went closer, bracing himself a little (for what?) and drew in his breath. He looked at the colors first—soft whites and blues and pale greens. The walls of the room were painted a soft, almost pearl pink—entirely feminine.

The subject of the painting was definitely Molly Hooper. She was standing in front of a mirror, holding a black skirt against her belly, as if measuring to see if it would fit her. Her breasts were bare and her face slightly pink, and her skin was smooth and so silky-looking he almost wanted to touch the painting to see if her flesh was warm. Her hair was braided and piled in a twist on her head, and across the front of the dark pile of soft brown braids were six tiny white rosettes. Behind her was an unmade bed, sheets rumpled, a pink and white quilt twisted against pillows. Several other dresses of varying colors were strung across the bed and on a chair nearby, along with silk stockings and all sorts of bras and knickers.

The look on her face was what made him step closer and stare at her, bewildered. She looked sad—beaten down and exhausted, and wishing for something unobtainable.

But what was it she was longing for? She was intelligent, well-informed, educated, and had done extremely well at university, financial hardships having done nothing to impede her academic success. She was well-liked by her colleagues. He was sure she had her fair share of beaux back then… so what could have been missing? He looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror she was gazing into, and really could see no difference from the girl or the softly-painted image, but that longing was still there, and it made something in his chest hurt—her eyes were wide, dark pools of… what? He struggled to find the word but found himself at a loss. He stepped back, running a shaking hand through his hair, not sure what to do. Or what to say next time he saw her.

She was _beautiful_.

It wasn't as though he hadn't acknowledged, privately, that Molly was nice to look at. Her eyes were dark brown and sensitive, and her mouth was soft-looking (thin lips, yes, but hardly _unsatisfactory_ ), and her figure was really quite nice. He had divorced himself entirely from _feeling_ things about women, long ago, and had decided that it was best not to pursue romantic entanglements of any kind, but sometimes he felt that sting of loneliness, particularly at night. He would never admit to anyone, ever, that sometimes he had fantasies of waking up with her…

He gulped and closed his eyes, reining in his emotions and regaining his self-control.

He looked at Molly again, and realized what her expression was.

Loneliness.

But there was something more—and he moved closer to the painting and looked closely.

On the bed behind Molly were several open magazines, and he could make out what looked like a long-legged model in a slinky black dress. The model was leaning back against a rock, her legs up to her eyes, and then there was Molly—small, slight, shy (at the time), and lacking any degree of self-confidence, clearly comparing herself, unfavorably, to a photo-shopped stick figure who likely possessed the intelligence of a kumquat. The girl in that painting, looking wistfully at herself in a mirror and finding herself severely wanting, was not the same Molly who had slapped him three times and looked him right in the eye when she spoke to him (and berated him and smiled at him and disagreed with him and could read him like a book and wasn't afraid to call him an arse and tear into him like a monkey on a cupcake when required) and would probably punch him right in the face if he pushed her hard enough.

"That portrait will cost a good chunk of change, eh?"

Sherlock whirled around and came face to face with a man who had always utterly repulsed him.

Trevor Grant.

 _Pornographer_. Publisher of a well-known skin magazine popular across Europe and in the UK. Producer and even director of hard-core pornographic films. Walking wad of slime. An embarrassment to the whole notion of 'freedom of the press'. _History of erectile dysfunction. Lifts in his alligator skin boots. Botox. Waxed. Spray tanned. Plastic surgery. No conscience, unless one was implantable._

"I think I know you," Grant said. "Home…?"

"Holmes," Sherlock answered coldly.

"Oh, right. The detective who faked his own suicide." Grant grinned. "Ballsy, I must say." He tried to peer around Sherlock to get another look at the painting, but Sherlock used his superior height, as well as quick reflexes to his advantage, and blocked him. "What, you know this little chickie?"

Sherlock refused to answer. Just glowered at Grant, wanting to break various bones to prevent the bastard from looking at his Molly… _his_ _pathologist_.

"Well, hardly matters. I've seen it. And those sketches, too," Grant said, gesturing toward nine small matted sketches on a large board. "Very nice." He grinned, and Sherlock remembered how his flesh crawled every time he had encountered Charles Augustus Magnusson. This man was like that very dead blackmailer—the same cold, shark-like eyes and complete lack of scruple. Magnusson exploited everyone, but this man exploited women, whether with their consent or not. There had long been all sorts of charges that Grant was involved in the international sex slavery trade, for one thing, but none of those charges had ever stuck and he frequently left courtrooms grinning and smugly telling reporters that 'as it didn't fit, they had to acquit'.

The smut purveyor smiled smoothly at Sherlock. "I think I'll put in a bid on this portrait, and the sketches, too. I've read that Livingstone-Hayes didn't always remember to get things _signed_ , and if there's no contract and ownership is _legally_ exchanged…" He looked at the sketches, as did Sherlock.

They were all just as innocent and wistful as the portrait. Molly sitting on the edge of a bathtub (lovely legs—that could not be denied), or arranging her hair, or lying on the bed, knees folded chastely together, looking toward the window and smiling just _slightly._ There was nothing in any of those sketches that was remotely sexual, but a disgusting wanker like Grant could definitely make them so.

"Yes, sir. Definitely will put in a bid." He looked Sherlock up and down. "Better get your eyeful now… though I think you'll be seeing them again soon, after I buy them." He grinned, and Sherlock felt like he needed throw up and take a bath.

The door to the gallery opened and Lord Norris stepped in, still in his dirty clothes, which were even dirtier after having delivered a calf and apparently getting some afterbirth on his jeans. He paused, staring at Trevor Grant, his brow furrowing. "Who let you in here?"

"I followed my nose," Grant answered smoothly. "The pictures are being displayed for potential buyers, aren't they?"

"Not without express permission from myself or Miss Cowan, and I seriously doubt Miss Cowan would give _you_ permission, and I know I didn't. You may leave." He stepped aside, holding the door open. Trevor Grant looked a little disgruntled but he walked out. However, he turned back to look at Sherlock and Lord Norris.

"I'm looking forward to the auction. Lots of nice birds to look at here." He grinned and winked before leaving.

Sherlock _really_ wanted to throw up.

"Nasty git," Lord Norris muttered. "He's in the papers all the time, being charged with all kinds of stuff… indecency, the sex trade… makes you wish we could live in more prudish times, if just to protect women from the likes of him."

Sherlock frowned and looked at Molly's portrait and the sketches again. Norris came up beside him, bringing the scent of the cow byre with him, and looked at the portrait.

"You thinking of buying any of these?" Norris asked.

"Yes. Some of them."

"I haven't even looked at them, really. Just not my thing, really. If I'm going to look at a girl, I'd rather she be flesh and blood." He shrugged. "I wouldn't _mind_ if she was naked, but maybe I'm old-fashioned. I'd rather talk to her a bit, you know, before other options come up. Blame my father—he always said to get to know a girl and make a friend of her before you try to get your leg over, and always at _her_ word." He gestured toward the door, and Sherlock took the cue—he was being shown out, too, although politely. Norris looked at Molly's portrait. "Pretty lass, I have to say, though she seems a bit sad. Do you know her?"

"Somewhat," Sherlock managed. "Perhaps not as well as I thought."

* * *

 **The next day**

"Miss Hooper? Hello, this is Olivia Cowan. I was calling to tell you that the portrait and the sketches have all been evaluated."

Molly gripped the phone, her lips forming a thin, white line. "I'm… I'm glad you called."

"Yes. Well. The portrait has been valued at sixty-five thousand and the sketches are all valued at about two thousand each. They are all very fine, the appraiser said, and considered some of Sir David's best work. Rosamund took them with her to the estate last night and didn't tell me about it until about an hour ago. Needless to say, I gave her a pretty good ticking off, as Lady Iris was very willing to meet up with you and myself to haggle. If you would like, I could see you're given an invitation to see them at Granville House on Friday, but I won't be there. Lord Norris is very kind, though, and I've told him to keep an eye out for you in case you decide to come up. I'm swamped and have to fly to Ireland tonight."

"Oh." Molly felt her heart splash down into her stomach and began paddling around, making her feel sick all over.

"I'm very sorry, Molly. If I had known, I would have tried to stop her, but Rosamund is what folks back home would call 'common as hog tracks', but she also has an eye for art and knows what's likely to bring in the best prices, and in this case she was right—the portrait and the drawings are lovely and they are perfect examples of what Sir David always tried to do for his subjects. Sixty thousand for the portrait is just the reserve and I suspect it'll bring much more than that… _thank you, Eamon, could you see that horrible helicopter-versus-car thing is moved farther away from the door. We don't need sobbing children fleeing from this place_ … I'm here at Granville House now, but I have to leave soon."

"It's all right."

Olivia sounded like she was about to say something else, but someone called to her. " _I'll be right there, ma'am_!"

"I appreciate you calling."

"I apologize for all these interruptions, Molly, it's horribly rude of me. I've got people everywhere and about a hundred more paintings and items to set up and then we have to do the layout for the catalog and the memorial service is tomorrow at St. Margaret's. Oh! There will be a charity event the night before the auction, by the way. Sir David wanted money to be raised for a cause dear to his heart: Victims No More—you've heard of it?"

Molly scanned her memory and finally snatched up something she had seen once on television. "It helps women trying to get out of prostitution and… er… pornography, right?"

"Yes. An excellent organization, I'd say, and any money raised goes directly to the work—Sir David was very pointed about that, let me tell you. The board of trustees and directors don't get a _penny_. It goes to the girls—helps them finish their educations, get jobs, housing—the works. There's girls as young as thirteen that they've managed to rescue, and David was very passionate about it. He always said pornography was soul-stealing, however much the girls 'consented' to it, and the sex trade just infuriated him. 'I'm not much on feminism, Ollie, but I'm very much for femininity, and treating a girl with respect and kindness because she's a person, not a thing', he would say. I suppose that was the over-protective father in him."

Molly smiled. "My father was the same way."

"Yes, mine too, but then Daddy also has a shotgun and still isn't afraid to go back to prison. So anyway, I'll send you two tickets to the charity ball. Bring a friend along and I know you'll have a good time. Blast… I'm sorry, but I really have to go. _Lady Iris, that hat is completely wrong for that outfit. Please reconsider_. Have a lovely day!"

Olivia rang off and Molly hung her head, sighing miserably. She looked at Mr. Swann, who lay on the slab, his chest open and a mass of debts left for his family to cope with. "And you thought you had problems," she told the old man.

"Surely you haven't been reduced to talking to them, Molly."

She turned and looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall. He looked tired and stressed, and she wondered if he had slept lately. "I suppose you must have a very important case going on," she said, wiping her nose with her coat sleeve.

"Moriarty is an ongoing case, but that's secondary at the moment."

She nodded absently and returned to Mr Swann.

"Molly," Sherlock said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "There's a bit of a problem."

"I know. I just talked to Olivia Cowan and she told me the painting is reserved at sixty thousand pounds, and the sketches are worth two thousand each."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "Really? That's… "

"I know. Astounding. I can't imagine why." She picked up her expander and began spreading Mr Swann's chest open. His family wanted a cause of death, and as she looked down at his clotted-up heart and nicotine-ravaged lungs, she had little trouble determining what had killed him. "I just hope no one I know sees them. Maybe you're right—no one I know travels in those circles, and I can't imagine any friends of mine from down at the pub will be going to that auction, and really, no one would think of Molly Hooper posing for such portraits. Maybe I'm just over-reacting."

He swallowed. "Right."

"So maybe we should just forget about it."

"Molly… "

"I posed for them, so I suppose I should just accept the consequences. The sketches will probably end up spread out among various people, and the portrait will be in a private collection and that'll be the end of it. Sixty or so years from now, someone will take one of the sketches to _Antiques Roadshow_ and by that time I'll be old and dottering about and won't even remember it and no one would recognize me anyway." She began removing Mr Swann's heart, smoothly cutting away and finally extracting it before settling it into a basin. "Miss Cowan sent me an invitation to a charity ball the night before the auction. I suppose I'll ask Crane to go with me—he likes being seen in public." So long as she could keep him away from the champagne, she would return home unscathed, but if he tried anything again, he'd be walking back to his car with a limp.

"Molly, they won't be going in separate places or to a private collection. A man is going to buy them." He swallowed. "An entirely revolting and amoral character named Trevor Grant."

Her hands froze around Mr Swann's liver. She gulped and closed her eyes tightly. " _That_ Trevor Grant."

"Yes, Molly. I'm… I'm so sorry."

She couldn't look at him. She bowed her head. John had mentioned to her, offhand, that Molly Hooper was the first and thus far the only person he had ever heard Sherlock Holmes apologize to. That was something she would always store away in her heart, for when she felt her worst—that Sherlock actually did give a damn about her feelings, even when he was being a total prat. Today, however, she knew he was being as kind as he could be, high-functioning sociopath or not.

"So I guess those pictures will be exhibited. Probably in one of his disgusting magazines, or featured in one of his hideous films." She forced herself to cut the liver out and settle it in its own basin. "Probably on the cover of the DVD box, knowing him."

He was silent. Finally, gathering up all her nerve, she turned around and faced him, gloved hands dripping blood and other fluids. "How did you find out he was buying them?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously and looked down. "I… uh… sort of ran into him. At Granville House."

Had she not remembered that she would end up with blood all over her face, Molly would have clapped her hand over her mouth. _Sherlock had seen the portrait and the sketches. He had seen them, and so had that disgusting excuse for a man, Trevor Grant. Soon the whole world would see them. Her mother and her smug married sister and her friends and her colleagues and total strangers with ruined keyboards and inflatable dates and endless hours of Tomb Raider and Halo…_

"Molly… I swear to you, I will find a way to get those pictures. I will get them."

"There's no way you could outbid him. Please… let it go."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but she couldn't make it out and she was starting to hear a horrible roaring in her ears. She stripped the gloves off and threw them in the trash. "Excuse me," she said. "I need… I have to go… "

He stepped aside and let her pass through the doors. Molly rushed down the hallway, ignoring Crane calling out to her about Mr Swann's autopsy, and reached the ladies' loos just before the dam broke and her tears began to flow. She locked herself in a stall, sat down and wept.

* * *

 **The next morning**

John arrived at Baker Street to find Sherlock breaking dishes.

He was slamming them, one after another, into the sink. He was wearing a pair of safety goggles, at least, but he was putting forth a great deal of force into destroying every damned dish in the kitchen. Cups, saucers, plates, bowls… everything was being shattered, without an ounce of mercy or consideration. He yanked open another cabinet and, finding no further dishes, he began looking for casserole pans and resumed his project. Watson said nothing, but stood there, watching in bewildered astonishment as the most controlled man he had ever seen vented his rage.

And he was _angry_ , that was for sure. John kept his distance, suspecting Sherlock might throw a pot at him if he spoke. He was about to leave when Mrs Hudson came in, looking outraged. "What the devil are you doing, Sherlock?" she shouted over the noise of crashing pottery and growling. Sherlock had run out of dishes and was now destroying flower pots, one after another and throwing the wrecked flowers into the bin.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snarled.

"Going mad, I think," Mrs Hudson said, and bravely stepped forward to snatch a pretty chintz pattern china teapot out of the fuming detective's hands. "That is Royal Doulton, you silly git. What is wrong with you?"

"Oh, for God's sake, do you really have to ask that, after all these years? As for what is wrong _now_ , I have failed, Mrs Hudson. _Failed_. Miserably." He snatched the pot from her and smashed it in the sink. "So both of you… sod off and leave me alone." He stalked out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut. There were further crashes in there, and Mrs Hudson sighed.

"My grandmother's two hundred year old washing pitcher and basin."

"I'll calm him down, Mrs Hudson. Go on back downstairs."

Mrs Hudson left, muttering about the mess and all those lovely pots now destroyed, and John waited until the crashing noises from Sherlock's room stopped. He gingerly opened the door and saw Sherlock sitting on the bed, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. "And what was that all about?"

"Pornography."

"Er… what?"

"The portraits of my client will likely be purchased by a pornographer, and those portraits will become public… knowledge shortly thereafter."

John pondered this for a moment. "I see."

"No, you don't see!" Sherlock shouted at him, standing up. "You see, but you don't _observe_! This woman is extremely important to m—… to various people and not only will this damage her professionally but also _destroy_ her personally, and I cannot bear that. I cannot. As I told you, she is a very respectable person and her happiness and well-being is _vital_. Paramount. Above all other concerns."

"To the government, or to you? Good Lord, she must be something," John said, looking around the room. Indeed, Sherlock had destroyed the pitcher and basin. Perhaps he ought to talk him into a setting up some kind of insurance plan to cover the damage resulting from fits of pique and guilt.

"She… is my client. That simple."

"Sherlock, you've had clients in line to _thrones_. You've had clients worth billions of pounds. I can only assume this client getting her reputation ruined could bring down the whole bloody government?"

The detective wavered, as if he was debating telling John her identity, but he finally shook his head. "It's not that way. It's… I made a promise and I must keep it. I just don't know how."

"So she's someone important to _you_?" John pressed.

"A client," was all Sherlock would say.

"Your mother?"

"Don't even go there, and as much as she can try me, one thing she would never do is pose nude for a portrait. Not even in her salad days. Besides, all she concerned herself with in her youth was mathematics."

John frowned and braced himself. "Is it Mary? Something you didn't know… "

"No. It's not Mary."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Mrs Hudson is an open book, and her love life in the past was more of an open _sports page_ , to be quite blunt, but no, it is not her." Sherlock stood and went to his closet, returning a moment later with his Belstaff. He threw it on the bed and pulled off his shirt, which was splattered with potting soil. He changed into another shirt, practically wrapped himself in his coat and stomped out of the room. John heard Sherlock's cell phone ring.

"Yes? Wait… what? I see. Well, that's interesting. Where are they going? How the hell can he afford that? Well. An interesting development, I must say, but right now I'm not sure how it can be used to our advantage. But I never leave anything to chance. I'll be out there soon and we'll go over details. No, I will not. I will buy you a hot meal, a cold non-alcoholic beverage, coffee and nothing else. Giving you money results in smashed store windows and tense chats with the police at three in the morning, and I'm in no mood for that now. Keep me informed." He rang off and stuffed the phone in his pocket. He turned back to face John. "Take Mary to Green's tonight at seven o'clock."

"I can't afford to eat there!" John squawked.

"I'll pay. Get a table reserved. Use my name if you need to, but get one." He nodded and left John completely bewildered. He sighed and called his wife.

"Mary? Can you get a sitter tonight? We're having dinner at Green's… on Sherlock."

* * *

"We can only hope that Sherlock really is paying for this, or we'll be living on crisps and bacon sandwiches for the next year or so," John mumbled to Mary as they took their seats at a table near the window (apparently the table had been preselected for them).

"Oh, stop worrying about money. I want to see what's happening. Do you have any idea who the client is?" Mary asked. She unfurled her serviette and spread it on her lap. The waiter arrived with water and bread, took their drink orders, and left.

"I've not a clue, really, but I think we might be aiming in that direction," John answered. He opened the menu, winced, and closed it. "I think this thing is mislabeled."

Mary giggled and looked at her menu, then quickly closed it. "My God, we can't even afford the tap water!"

John's attention was captured then by the sight of DI Greg Lestrade coming in with a very lovely redhead on his arm. He spoke with the maître d' and the couple was led to their own table on the other side of the restaurant. John was surprised to see the detective there—he could hardly afford to eat here, either, and though he knew the detective wasn't some bumpkin, it was certainly out of his usual milieu. Lestrade was more likely to found eating fish and chips and playing darts at a pub. Just the same, the girl he was with was _definitely_ made for a place like this—she was beautiful, clearly very classy, and even more fascinatingly, she was very _interested_ in Lestrade, if her smile was any indication.

"Well, she's certainly high-level," Mary said, peering carefully at the couple. "Not that I don't think Greg could swim in that pond—he's a very decent bloke and can handle anything. Considering he handles Sherlock as well as he does, he can deal with Green's and the Knightsbridge set."

"Really?" John asked.

"Hm. He's quite a good-looking man, too, and it's nice to see him looking cleaned up and not so tired. Poor man. His wife raked him over the coals, the heartless..."

"Cow."

"Bitch, you mean."

"Well, that too."

* * *

"And here I thought we were going out for fish and chips. I didn't realize it would be swordfish and capers," Olivia said, smiling at Greg, who drew in his breath. He was still having trouble forming groups of words into coherent sentences. Just picking her up at Grayson House tonight, and seeing her in that little black Chanel dress, a diamond necklace artfully winding through her hair (who would think to do such a thing?) and smelling like a perfumer's dream come true had left him gaping like some idiot schoolboy instead of a divorced father of three.

"You can order whatever you like," Greg said. He was resolutely not going to think about his credit card. American Express could punish him later. He'd sell his car, if need be.

She laughed. "Then I'll have spaghetti and marinara, and a Coke. I don't drink, really. A glass of wine with my dinner, sometimes, but I don't mind if you have something harder. I also do not believe in making a man who makes an honest living empty out his bank account for me. It would be unconscionably rude, and you're a police officer. I can't bilk a copper out of his cash."

There was a comfortable silence between them, before he finally leaned forward. "So what do you think of Mother England?"

Olivia smiled. "It's a lovely country. Lovely, kind people and I really enjoy driving and walking around in the country, and I _really_ love fly-fishing up north. I have a friend who owns an estate in Scotland and he lets me wade out and try to outwit trout and stalk deer."

He was surprised to hear that. "And the food? I know it must be a lot different from American cooking."

"Well… I'll try and be tactful."

Lestrade grinned. "That bad, huh?"

"Hideous," she said with a rueful smile. "I live on pastries and cucumber sandwiches—tea is my only meal of the day. The first time I had tea, they brought me a dish of all these little sandwiches, but I thought someone had surely eaten on them already. I told them to bring me about forty more and a Dr. Pepper and I'd be happy. And your concept of 'bacon' is a far cry from bacon back home, and don't get me started on the things you do to beef." She shuddered. "Yorkshire pudding. Kidney pie. _Shepherd's pie_. The British concept of _gravy_ ," she whispered darkly. "I nearly fainted."

He laughed. "I've heard of something in America called 'chicken fried steak'. What on earth is that?"

"Cheap cut of round steak, dipped in egg and flour, fried about nine minutes on one side and six minutes on the other or until tender and with a nice crust on it. You have to beat that piece of meat for a good bit before you start fryin' it, and then you make gravy from the drippings. And of course, we also have green beans and okra and fried green tomatoes and biscuits… " She sighed. "I go home for Thanksgiving and Mother's Day every year. Keeps me from starving to death."

"Biscuits? With your meal?" Greg asked, brow furrowing.

"Oh! No, not those kinds. _Biscuits_. Big fluffy biscuits. I guess the closest y'all have here would be called scones. My grandmother taught me how to make biscuits from scratch. I'll show you some time. You spread butter on 'em when they're still hot and fresh out of the oven, and then you put homemade mustang jelly on 'em, or honey or molasses. If you'd allow it, I'll have you eating fried catfish and hushpuppies and Moon Pies and real, by-God barbecue in no time. You'll never go back and you might even gain some weight."

"Sounds perfect to me."

Olivia smiled, her cheeks pinking a little. "Yes. It does, doesn't it?"

* * *

"How do they look so far?" John asked, realizing the reason why he and Mary had been conscripted to eat here tonight. They were to spy on Lestrade and that woman, but the reason _why_ remained a mystery to him.

"Half in love, I think," Mary said, smiling and peeking around her menu at the couple across the restaurant. "Equally smitten. She has a lovely accent, from what I've heard. American Southern."

"Ah."

"Oh, look, the violinist is going to go serenade them! How _sweet_!" Mary gushed, loving to watch a new romance bloom.

* * *

The violinist approached, playing something light and _squeaky_ , to Lestrade's mind, and it was soon annoying. He eyed the man as he stood near their table, making flourishing motions as he played, and finally, just as Olivia was telling him about her first trip to the British Museum but could barely be heard over all the _noise_ , Lestrade moved quickly—he stood, snatched the bow from the violinist and tossed it toward the kitchen doors. The violinist grabbed in vain for the bow and sputtered in outrage, scowled at the detective, who was sitting down again and listening intently to Olivia, and stalked away in a huff.

"… figured out that those Egyptian mummies weren't from Egypt at all. They were tourists who got lost in there too, and I know I wasn't the only one. This poor English man approached me and asked if I knew where the exits were. He told me some of the little ones were beginning to give up hope."

"I know where they exits are," Greg nodded. "I'd be happy to give you a proper guided tour. Any time." He shrugged. "I worked a summer there, when I was at university."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. I'm sure you're an excellent tour guide." She smiled. "Much nicer than the one who abandoned me by the Elgin Marbles to chat up a woman who looked like Lady Gaga… only more frightening."

By that time, his hand was covering hers on the table and they were oblivious to everyone else in the room.

* * *

"Well, I think they've reached _détente_ ," John said.

"Why would Sherlock want us to spy on them?"

John's phone buzzed. "I think we're about to find out."

 **Are Graham and that American woman still there? – SH**

John sighed.

 **Yes. Greg and the American woman are still here. – JW**

 **Good, though I don't know who Greg is. What about Lestrade? – SH**

 **For God's sake, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade! - JW**

 **Oh. See they remain there until at least ten o'clock. –SH**

 **Sherlock, the babysitter is only scheduled to stay at our house until 9! – JW**

 **What, you think the baby will somehow escape from your house if left alone for thirty minutes? – SH**

 **Sherlock, I will call the damned sitter and ask her to stay later, but YOU will pay for her services tonight. -JW**

 **Fine. Just see they stay there 'til 10. – SH**

 **What the hell are you doing that requires they remain here? – JW**

 **None of your business. –SH**

 **It is my business. – JW**

 **I'm paying for your meal. I'm paying for your babysitter. I would think you would be a little more appreciative of both gestures and operate at your usual level of unimaginative but useful decorum and cooperation. –SH**

John rubbed his face. Mary laughed. They finished up their tiramisu and asked for coffee. It was almost nine thirty, and John still had no idea what was going on. Sherlock had never been this evasive or so damned mysterious before.

"Whoever this woman is, she must be pretty damned powerful," John said.

Mary smiled and touched his fingers, deciding that it really wasn't a good time, considering her husband's currently grouchy mood, to voice the obvious to him. She'd save that for later. Right now, she was enjoying a wonderful night out with him, alone, wearing clothes that weren't stained by spit-up and with no need for baby monitors. She adored her daughter, but her husband came first and any time spent with him was time well spent. "I'm absolutely certain that she is, John," she said, squeezing his hand. "There can be no doubt."

* * *

Sherlock quickly removed the thumb drive from the computer, shut it down and waited, crouching down a little when he saw a cleaning lady go by, pushing a cart. When he was sure the coast was clear, he moved out into the hallway, closing the door behind him after locking it again. Really, Lestrade should make his security code a little less _obvious_ , though he had to wonder if he might change it later if his relationship with that Olivia woman went well.

He managed to avoid security cameras all the way back downstairs, and arrived at the ground floor of the NSY building without even getting a glance from any of the police officers and detectives slouching about, drinking coffee and not solving crimes. He casually strolled through the doors and went outside, exhaling. He had what he needed, and now it was just a matter of doing some research. Sleep would come later, once all this was settled and Molly's reputation was still completely intact and utterly unsullied.

The alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

 **Two days later**

Molly was muted, to say the least. She had little to say at work, and everyone noticed. She was usually fairly talkative, if not effusive, and she was well-liked by her colleagues. So it was that her coworkers were a little more than concerned about her. She was pale, her eyes were often red-rimmed, and she had lately taken to staring off into space, her work forgotten.

Sherlock had not come into the lab since telling her of the evaluation of the paintings and that soon, a smut-peddler would be buying them and displaying them to the world. She supposed she ought to get used to being either ostracized or mocked. Her sister would get even more smug, though perhaps it would make her stop boasting about her perfect husband and perfect kids and perfect house (whenever Emma started talking about her Wonderful Married Life, Molly would replace her voice with Hyacinth Bucket saying, "Mercedes, swimming pool, and room for a pony!'). Her mother would be horrified, of course, and would make Not Talking About It imperative every Christmas, with Emma's husband smirking and reminding everyone, in his best Basil Fawlty tones, to Not Talk About It, as it would upset poor little Molly.

Taking into account the fact that she might very well lose her job over this, Molly was more thrifty than ever. She gave up any notion of buying any new clothes, even for the coming winter, and pinched her pennies until the Queen hiccupped. She decided she would stop buying coffee at the canteen, start using bargain soap for her face and the cheapest shampoo for her hair, and wondered if by making herself look as drab as possible, no one would really believe those pictures were of her at all.

Wiping her eyes, she sat alone in the St. Bart's canteen, reading over a pathology report and wondering how on earth she was supposed to get through this. She was munching glumly on some crisps when her mobile buzzed.

 **Still working on your case. Resolution soon. –SH**

She almost spat out a crisp and turned the phone _off_ , wanting nothing more to do with it. She would tell him firmly, once and for all, that he needn't bother. She would drop by Baker Street tonight and tell him he could list the case as closed and she would go on with her life, if there was one after next Tuesday.

James Crane sat down opposite her suddenly. "Are you finished with that report yet?" he asked her.

"Oh. Yes." She slid the folder across the table to him. "Mr Blakenstock suffered a fatal heart attack while playing tennis." She began digging in her pockets, looking for her pen to sign off on the forms when she glanced up and saw Olivia in the doorway, looking around. The redhead spotted her and smiled.

"Hello, Molly. I was just passing by this place and remembered you work here. Here's the tickets to the charity ball at Granville House." Every eye in the canteen was on Olivia as she crossed the room and handed the tickets to Molly.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you." Molly shoved the tickets into her pocket.

"Could we talk for a moment? In private?" Olivia said, glancing at Crane, who was standing there staring at her, mouth half open.

"Um… sure. Dr Crane, this is Olivia Cowan."

"Don't tell me your name is Frasier," Olivia said.

Crane shook his head. "James."

"Ah. Molly?" She nodded her head toward the doors and Molly made a vague 'follow me' gesture. The two women left the canteen and Molly led her into a break room near the loos. Olivia sat down wearily.

"I had to walk hither to yon to find you. My feet are killing me! I wanted to talk you about some rather disturbing news." She waited until Molly had sat down before continuing. "I heard that Trevor Grant was at Granville House yesterday, and that he was looking at your picture in particular. Lord Norris told me he came upon him and…" She saw the look on Molly's face and sighed. "I'm so sorry, Molly. I don't even know how he heard about the auction itself, but considering so many of Sir David's paintings and sketches were of nudes, it's not that much of a wonder that he would hear about it and show up. There's no use thinking he won't show up at the auction, too, and we can't legally bar him."

"I know," Molly said softly.

"It was really odd, though, that Lord Norris told me that not only was Trevor Grant there, but Sherlock Holmes was there, too. The detective… you've heard of him, right?"

Molly gulped. "Yes. I have."

"Which is kind of interesting, really, because Mr Holmes was looking at your portrait, according to Lord Norris, and seemed very… well, let's be honest, he was as mad as a hornet when he saw that Grant fellow. Of course, Alistair sent Grant packing, like any gentleman. But I had no idea that Sherlock Holmes would be interested in art. He doesn't seem very… _artsy_. But what's funny is that a few days ago he and Greg were in Knightsbridge and Mr Holmes ran out of the house like a cat with its tail on fire when a car alarm went off outside. Strange man… beautiful eyes, though, but he hardly seemed interested in any of the other pictures at Granville. He was just looking at yours and got pretty well ticked when that Grant fellow said he was going to buy them."

"He's not. I mean… I mean, I can't imagine why… why he would be at Granville House. I've heard that he's only interested in crime solving."

"Huh. Well. I consider porn to be a crime, but I don't guess there's much to be done about getting rid of it. As it is, it's through him that I met Detective Lestrade… maybe you've met him in the course of your own work here?"

"Yes, I know Greg," Molly said softly. "He's a nice man."

Olivia smiled widely. "Amen to that, sister. Very sweet and funny. Were it not for two thousand years of Christian doctrine and my own convictions, I'd have let him stay over two nights ago. We had dinner. He threw a violinist's bow away and told me where to find the exits at the British Museum and I told him all about Southern cooking and how to pronounce 'y'all'."

"You and Greg… really?" Molly was surprised to hear that. "Well, that's good. So you and he got on?"

" _Quite_ well. Took us about twenty minutes to say goodnight. We're going out again tomorrow night, this time to a movie and then a walk."

"That's nice. I'm glad to see him going out again. His ex-wife was… "

"A harpy, according to Mr Holmes."

"That would be one word for her."

"Well. I must be off, Molly. I wish I had better news for you, but I wanted to tell you in person, and if there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call. I hope you'll come to the ball—I know it'll be a blast. The organizers have been known to throw a fundraiser ball together within just hours of a disaster, so it'll be quite a to-do." She stood, smiled, and tapped out of the room. Molly leaned forward, head in her hands, and sighed miserably.

Dr Crane came in and looked at Molly, brow furrowing. "Are you all right, Molly?"

"I'm fine," she lied. "Listen, I've got tickets to a charity ball at Granville House next Monday night. Would you like to come with me?"

He grinned. "Sounds great. What time?"

She looked at the ticket. "Starts at six o'clock and goes on until the police make everybody leave," she said. "Black-tie, evening wear, open bar. Donations encouraged but not required."

"Count me in then. See ya 'round, Molly." He grinned and left, and Molly covered her face with her hands again, not knowing how she was going to cope with having her life ruined _and_ dating James Crane, a man another girl in the lab said had no personality. 'He'd rob a bank and save a puppy at the same time'. She supposed that, once her reputation was in shambles that would be about the best she could ever hope for.


	3. Somewhat Compromising 3

**Chapter 3: Somewhat Compromising 3**

* * *

 **Thanks for all the nice reviews. I must admit this plotline is based very loosely on an episode of** ** _WKRP in Cincinnati_** **. Very loosely, that is. It was the seed but not the tree.**

 **I hope Mycroft doesn't come across OOC. I have a hard time reading him.**

* * *

Sherlock paced while John read and kept an eye on the new dishes. He and Mary had spent almost an hour that morning unpacking them all and putting them in the cabinets. If Sherlock stumbled on a case again, then he supposed he would have to tackle the man and hold him down until the right cocktail of sedatives could be applied and the dishes were hidden until he was calm again.

"Stop thinking!" Sherlock growled. "It's distracting!"

"Just reading." John calmly turned another page.

"Reading leads to thinking. That's what always made Stalin so angry, and so he outlawed reading." He paused, hands behind his back while he stared out the window at the street below. "I have to go out."

John made no comment about Sherlock comparing himself to a mass murderer. "Need me to… "

"Stay here and read." Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff and stomped out, agitated, worried and sleep-deprived.

John shook his head, glancing at the laptop again and wondering. But Mary had pointed out to him that that sort of digging could lead to Sherlock destroying the entire _flat_ , which would lead to Sherlock coming to live with _them_ , which would lead to her putting forth much more effort into killing the famous detective than she had previously . "Better to let things happen on their own, as much as we can," she had told him at breakfast. "All will come out in the wash."

Easy for her to say. Sherlock never washed. He just didn't think of that sort of thing while working, and since this case appeared to be a _ten_ , John suspected Sherlock would forget to eat or sleep or possibly even bathe. "Well," he muttered. "That's why they invented Renuzit, I suppose."

* * *

Mycroft didn't even glance up from the _Racing Post_ when his brother came stomping into his office, looking like death served cold on a cracker and as angry as a wasp. Hm, he thought. A ten. Must be a good one. "Little brother."

"I need a favor."

"Good morning to you, too."

Sherlock flopped into a chair and made a steeple of his hands. Mycroft slowly turned another page, interested in an article about the American Triple Crown winner, American Pharoah's potential breeding value. He hadn't had much chance, lately, to truly indulge in one of his favorite pastimes, but had relished watching the horse win the three American classic races. It had been a a grand thing to see—living history, hundreds of years of careful breeding of the best to the best and hoping for the best; glory, savagery, passion, joy… all galloping by in the form of a handsome bay horse with a fluid, graceful stride, lit by the sun and hundreds of flashing Iphone cameras.

Ah, _sentiment_.

He finally glanced at his brother and saw the agitation on his face. Hm. Very odd.

"What do you need?" Mycroft asked mildly.

"I… need some money."

"You have money," Mycroft pointed out, still maintaining a bland tone.

"Not enough."

"For what?"

"That's not your concern."

"If I'm loaning you money, then it is a concern, considering I won't ever see it again. So what is it for?"

"I have a client."

"The client can certainly apply for a bank loan, Sherlock. Why they would come to you for money is a mystery." Mycroft returned to the article, finding a strange sort of comfort in the battle-cry names of racehorses. Secretariat, Storm Bird, Yankee Gentleman, Empire Maker, Unbridled. Perhaps it was the continuity of it all—seeing the grandchildren of horses he had seen run twenty years ago competing in major races today. It wasn't as though he was likely to see Bobby Charlton's son playing football at championship level, but a direct descendant of Unbridled (whose Kentucky Derby win had been so very wonderful, for so many wonderful reasons) had just won the Triple Crown and it was really quite thrilling. He hadn't been to a racecourse in years and it still annoyed him. A day at the races would be a welcome relief from _running_ things and coping with his brilliant, mad brother, but it wasn't as though he could skip out to Deauville on Sundays. He would come home and find London burning, all because one of Sherlock's experiments had gone balls up.

"They are not asking for a loan. They are asking that I obtain a portrait and some sketches. But they cost too much. Almost eighty thousand is the reserve price but I know they'll realize more."

Mycroft put the paper down. "Why can't your client afford them?"

"They are not blessed with our resources."

"Everyone has resources, Sherlock. Most just don't know how to tap into them." He didn't even glance up at his brother, but Sherlock was still now, waiting. Yet again, Mycroft couldn't help but compare his brother to a racehorse: nervous, brilliant, beautiful, dangerous, and if someone could just control him, he could accomplish almost anything, so long as his minder kept him from burning himself out. John was doing a fair job, but he had a wife and child to care for now. Mycroft often pondered who else might have the nerve to take on the task.

"And by no means is my client the kind to know how to tap into those resources. Else I wouldn't even be here. I am my client's only resource, really, save friends and family, and they have none of those _resources_ either."

"More's the pity for them, then. How could the client afford you?"

" _Pro bono_ ," Sherlock muttered after a brief, pregnant pause.

"Really? I would never have expected that."

"This client is… very important."

Hm. True meanings behind unspoken statements must be taken into account. "Should be in my file, then. Tell me the name and I'll take care of it."

" _By no means_."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother. Sherlock was withdrawn, his expression guarded, if not _hunted_. He looked unkempt—more than usual—and there was something in his eyes that told him the case was _extremely_ important. More than any other before, save possibly the Magnusson situation, but that hadn't even put Sherlock into such a state of near panic. If Mycroft hadn't known better, he would say his brother looked _guilty_. "So… this mysterious client of yours is someone… close to you? Good God, not John or Mary… "

"No."

"Listen, Sherlock, I've got quite a busy schedule and it would be made less stressful if you would just tell me the name of the client, the situation, and what you want done. Then I will dictate the terms of my assistance." He shook the paper again. "I'm sure it will involve you squiring Mummy and Dad to a _musical_. I hear they're reviving _Oklahoma!_ "

"I cannot give you a name." Sherlock stretched like a cat, but his eyes were alert, scanning the room, thinking, weighing, dividing everything up and putting everything in its appropriate box in his mind palace, to be used later. "But the portrait and the sketches are nudes of this person and this person does not wish to have them come out in public. But a well-known and loathsome pornographer intends to purchase them and very likely use them to add to his filthy lucre."

Mycroft was silent, thinking this over. "Which pornographer?"

"Trevor Grant," Sherlock spat.

Mycroft winced. "Well. Raise your hand if _ew_. Makes Larry Flynt look like a kindly old Disciples of Christ _preacher_."

"Don't speak his name in the same breath as the bewilderingly virtuous. And _exactly_."

"So this client is a woman?"

Sherlock looked toward the windows. "Yes."

"Who did the portraits?"

"Sir David Livingstone-Hayes." Sherlock stretched his long legs out and slouched in the chair, just as Mummy had told him not to do about seventeen _billion_ times while he was growing up.

"Ah. Once dead, the artist's works invariably double in value, and his work is already valuable. I met him once. Rather a nice fellow. Reminded me a bit of Pablo Picasso, albeit with morals and actual talent. Never thought to put a subject's eyes on her forehead, anyway. He did quite a few very nice nudes." He shuffled the paper, just to make sure Sherlock knew he was paying attention. "I've seen a few. None are even remotely objectionable. I know a vicar who has two, and he is the model of moral rectitude… and even more _annoyingly_ , he's a very nice man. Works tirelessly for some organization that rescues girls caught up in the sex trade and in pornography. I'd say he was in on it all but I simply cannot due to his sterling character, thus I remain astonished by good people doing nice things for pure reasons."

"Yes, I know."

"So you've seen said nudes of said anonymous client?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he refused to answer. He shot to his feet and stalked over to the window to stare out at the bleak, rainy day.

"Bonny lass, then?" Mycroft asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Still no answer.

"Former lover, perhaps?"

Sherlock still wouldn't answer.

"Turned you down?"

Silence.

"Turned _her_ down?"

Sherlock finally turned and looked at him, expression cold. "I will not have her reputation besmirched, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear? Think whatever you like, but I'm working on her behalf."

"For clarification's sake, yes, I was rather glad to hear that. So what do you want me to do?"

"Loan me the bloody money, that's what!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sorry, brother, but I cannot. I can't hand over eighty thousand or more pounds to purchase nudes if they will serve the government no purpose. I'm not even sure if I could purchase them if it they would."

"You have wads of cash sitting around at home, under the mattress. In the mattress, even. I'm sure Anthea could testify to that, and to your bowlful-of-jelly _belly_."

Mycroft frowned. "Don't get catty. I cannot assist you in this endeavor. If you have some other plans, of course, feel free to sound them out and we'll weigh their merits accordingly." He shuffled the pages and wasn't terribly surprised when Sherlock suddenly ripped the paper from his hands and threw it across the room.

"Damn you! Have you ever heard of doing something right because it is _right_? This woman's portrait and nine sketches are about to be purchased by a wicked man who intends to do evil things with them for very bad reasons and yet you sit there talking about the damned _government_ being unable to fund it! The government funds far more ridiculous and even outright _evil_ things every day!"

To say that Mycroft was surprised now was an understatement. He had never, even once, seen Sherlock so upset. Not even during his dealings with Moriarty or when battling and finally _killing_ Magnusson. He twisted his mouth, wondering if he should even say it. Sherlock could be extremely dangerous when angered, particularly when it came to the small circle of people he genuinely loved, and the fury flashing in the younger man's eyes could stop armies. He sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and decided to chance it. "Molly Hooper, eh?"

Sherlock's cheeks pinked.

 _Gotcha_ , Mycroft thought, but he didn't feel smug. Sherlock had his pressure points, but then he had his _pressure point_ , and Molly Hooper was it. John and Mary Watson. Redbeard. Mummy and Dad. Even Mycroft himself—they all were vastly important to Sherlock, to varying degrees and for a wide variety of reasons. Only a select few could make Sherlock agitated and over-protective to the point of outright homicide, but when it came to that mousy but rather charming creature at St. Bart's morgue, all bets were off. He never talked about her, never behaved as though she meant anything to him, and often said awful things to her, and so that meant that she meant _everything_ to him. Mycroft knew she mattered the most to him, and she was the one person he trusted above all others. John was his best friend and would always be (and Mycroft still had moments of disquiet over that), but Molly Hooper… she was in a category entirely her own and probably didn't even know it. She had saved Sherlock's life, at great personal and professional risk, and had done so without any notion of being repaid. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had ever attempted to do so.

Probably not.

Still, a woman doesn't slap Sherlock Holmes _three times_ and not matter to him. John had told him all about that. Even more, Sherlock had actually apologized to the woman after humiliating her. _That_ was absolutely mind-boggling. Sherlock hadn't even apologized for killing Magnusson, but then again, who would?

"You know that I cannot be seen purchasing… wait, the nudes are of Molly Hooper _herself_? Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock growled. He sat down again, drumming his fingers on the arm of the leather chair.

"I figured they were of her mother. And you've seen them?"

Sherlock's expression clouded. Well, there's the reason for the guilt. First for seeing them, second for liking them. It was clear Sherlock _liked_ them. _Welcome to the world of the living, little brother._ "Yes."

"Livingstone-Hayes never did anything remotely _pornographic_ or prurient, Sherlock. It would take quite a lot for even a pornographer like Grant to make them so. Only the lowest of the low read his magazines or watch his awful videos, so it's not as though anyone in her circle or even yours for that matter would see them. Well… perhaps some in your circle, but only your Baker Street Irregulars, and most can't afford brandy, much less X-rated films and girlie mags." Mycroft frowned, quietly feeling sorry for Sherlock and particularly sorry for Molly Hooper, but he would never admit to such a thing _aloud_. "I will admit, however, that Grant will do all he can to that end." It was too awful that she would be punished for a youthful indiscretion, if it could really be called that. Posing nude for a legitimate and very reputable and respected artist was hardly something to ruin one's reputation. Posing nude for Hugh Hefner… possibly, in some circles outside Hollywood, and only outside Hollywood would someone's good name _matter_. If and when Grant got hold of those portraits, she might as well have posed for him in the first place.

Just the same, Molly obviously didn't want the pictures made public. Mycroft could understand that. He had only met her a few times and while indifferent to her in general, he admitted that she was an attractive and clearly very intelligent woman (you don't become a lead pathologist as a major hospital without knowing your stuff), and behind that tongue-tied shyness he had always sensed a _toughness_ too. She might look like a wallflower, but he suspected she had a kick like a Tennessee mule. For all that, she was clearly not the kind of woman who went about humming _When You've Got It, Flaunt It_.

No wonder Sherlock respected her.

"She doesn't deserve to be punished this way," Sherlock said at last, as if reading Mycroft's mind. "She's done nothing wrong. But after Tuesday night, everyone will think she _did_." He exhaled, clenching his fists.

"I'm sorry, little brother, but there is little I can do." Mycroft waited for Sherlock's response. It might involve shattered glass or, as in one particularly unpleasant incident, a destroyed vase from the T'ang dynasty. The younger man sat for several moments, staring at his brother before he finally stood up. He flipped up the collar of his Belstaff, gave Mycroft a cold glare and left.

Not before casually tipping a priceless two-thousand year-old bust of Janus off its pedestal by the door. The thumping crash was followed by the bust breaking into three large pieces. Sherlock kicked one of the pieces across the room, where it landed against the _Racing Post_. With that, Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Mycroft looked glumly at the bust.

"Well. Better you than me, mate."

* * *

 **The next morning**

Molly sat in the bathtub for a long time, until her skin was horribly pruny and her cat was starting to look concerned. Finally, she climbed out, wrapping herself up in her big fuzzy robe and stuffing her feet into the yellow Minions house slippers Mary had given her as a gag Christmas gift. She put the pot on for cocoa, sat down on her couch and switched on the telly. Tomorrow—Sunday—she was going to have to go try and find a proper frock for the charity ball at Granville House (somehow, she doubted the yellow dress from John and Mary's wedding would do). How she was to scrape together enough cash for that, she didn't know, but by no means would she attend such an event looking like a twitchy little mouse.

After a while, she began going through all the feminine routines. Plucking, tweezing, shaving and applying various solvents and stinging creams to eradicate or at least obscure blemishes. She put her hair up in a wrapper, and after finishing with the blemish cream (and looking like her grandmother, only with her teeth in her mouth instead of in her housecoat pocket), Molly sat in her father's old chair, doing her nails, with her toes separated by foam while polish dried. She sighed and wondered if she should skive off tomorrow morning and get her hair done somewhere, and maybe a makeover, too. Maybe if she looked truly her very best, no one would realize it was her in that portrait and in those drawings. She hadn't seen them in years, and frankly wondered if she would recognize herself, either. It was either be extra mousy or go totally glam. One was easier on her chequebook, though.

She was adding up the cost of a new do and exfoliation when her doorbell rang. Mumbling wearily, not caring how awful she looked, she heel-walked to the door, telling Toby to get out of the way and not get hair on her freshly-polished nails, and unlocked the door. For a moment, her heart stopped.

"Really, Molly, you ought to know to ask who's at the door first before opening it," Sherlock said. "Particularly with Moriarty skulking about."

"Fine." She slammed the door in his face. "Who the bloody hell is it?" she yelled.

"Open the door, Molly," he shouted, pushing the mail slot open and peering through it. "I have been texting you since last evening and you never answered."

She opened the door and glared at him. "What do you want?"

"Well, first of all, hello and grand to see you too. Secondly, I am relieved to see you are alive, and thirdly I cannot imagine why you're angry at me."

"I'm just dandy," she snapped and turned away. Sherlock followed her inside and closed the door, locking it securely. "And you're always bewildered about why people are angry at you, but surely you can't be _surprised_ about it." She didn't know why she was angry at him either, but in the ongoing battle of the sexes, she was not going to concede that particular point. Being female meant never having to explain irrational behavior.

"You really ought to get more locks on this door," he said, pausing in her living room to ponder the pile of feminine beauty products strewn all over her coffee table. He picked up a blackhead remover, brow furrowed, but she snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it into her pocket. At that moment, her teapot began to scream.

"That won't keep the world out," she said. "What do you want?" She poured hot water into her cup of cocoa powder and stirred it moodily, leaning against her kitchen counter. Sherlock eyed Toby warily, and the cat contemplated him with an equal amount of vague unease. Finally the cat padded into Molly's bedroom.

"I am forming a plan to obtain the portrait and the drawings."

"I told you to drop it."

"No you didn't."

"I said to forget about it."

"You said it, but you didn't mean it, and as such I chose to ignore your comment." He looked around her flat, noting the neatness, the pretty decorations and the utter _Mollyness_ of the place. He paced into the kitchen and looked around the room—it was painted bright yellow with white cabinets and wood countertops. The floor was stone-flagged, and just off the kitchen was a tiny breakfast nook with French doors that opened onto a postage-stamp sized patio. He opened a cabinet and found a beaker, then poured some of her hot water into it and searched for a teabag. She sighed—he had stayed with her sometimes during his two 'dead years' and had rearranged her kitchen to his own liking, and since his arrangement had actually proven fairly sensible she hadn't changed it back. She lifted her chin and decided she would change it back after all.

"You also should get better locks on those doors," he said, nodding toward her breakfast nook. "Unsafe."

"I am not some country bumpkin just off the bus, you naff git," she snapped. "I can take care of myself, and I happen to know about that security detail from your brother's office or wherever he's from _and_ your Baker Street spies that shadow me wherever I go. I take the spies a cup of tea sometimes, like when it's raining or really cold, but that security fellow gives me the creeps—he looks a love child from Animal on _The Muppets_ and Cherie Blair." She drank the last of her cocoa. "I am not an idiot, and while I may not be as _observant_ as you, Your Highness, I do notice things."

"I'm certain that you do, Molly," he nodded. His tea was ready, and after carefully mixing in his cream and sugar, took a sip and looked strangely relaxed. "I also promised that I would get those pictures and I will."

"I was going to come talk to you last night, but when I finally got off work I was too exhausted and went home. I was going to tell you to drop the case and go on to what matters: catching Moriarty. I also have to go out tomorrow and buy a frock and shoes for a charity ball at Granville House on Monday night. I'm going with James Crane."

"Who?"

"Crane. James Crane!"

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked. Molly wasn't about to think he sounded annoyed.

"Colleague at work."

"I see. Well." He sipped his tea again. "I hope you won't be wearing that yellow thing. Didn't do you any favors."

"Why, thank you, Sherlock, I do so _relish_ your insults," she hissed. She felt like kicking a kitten through a plane propeller. She felt like going ten rounds with Sonny Liston. She felt like kneeing Sherlock Holmes where it really _did_ matter, since neither a kitten, an airplane nor Sonny Liston were currently available.

Bloody hell, he had seen her naked and probably didn't even twitch. This beautiful, detached, cold-blooded robot still didn't see her as a woman. Just as… Molly, his means of obtaining body parts and access to the lab. Whatever kindness he had shown her, even that day she had spent working with him, after returning from his 'death', had been out of a sense of obligation and nothing else. Why did she keep trying to convince herself it was otherwise?

Well, obviously because she was still hopelessly in love with him. Emphasis on _hopelessly_.

"You would look better in black, actually."

"Oh, well, since I'm a pathologist, how utterly appropriate!" She smacked her cup down and glowered at him from several inches below his height but still looking him right in the eye. A year ago or so ago, she would have been trembling in nervousness and stammering in his presence, but that Molly seemed almost as distant from her as the naked Molly in that portrait and in the sketches.

"No use taking all your frustrations out on me, Molly. You're the one who posed nude, after all."

She slapped him so hard he dropped the beaker, which shattered on the floor, but she didn't even jump. He rubbed his reddening jaw, but barely seemed even a little miffed. "Get out!" she shouted at him.

"I'm not saying you did anything wrong, and even though you just slapped me for no good reason besides your very obvious frustration and anger, I will still retrieve those pictures and return them to you, at no charge."

"You are so… so… damn you!" she shouted, stamping her foot. He stepped forward, his good humor gone and replaced with something dangerous and… she wasn't sure what to call it. But he was crowding against her, making her back up against the counter and brace herself with her hands. Her heart started pounding as he moved closer, into her space, and his head dipped just slightly, so that her lips parted involuntarily, like some damned fool thinking she was about to be kissed.

"Your hair is damp."

She was confused and breathless. "I just had a bath," she whispered, staring up into his dazzling blue-green eyes.

"Wear black to the ball. It suits your coloring. It has nothing to do with your being a pathologist, so please, no more _thwacking_. I know little of fashion, mind, but I know when you look your best." He backed away so suddenly she almost collapsed. "Apply to Miss Cowan, in fact, for assistance in finding the right outfit. I understand she is being courted by Gavin… "

"Greg."

"… Lestrade and will of course be attending the ball with him. I suppose you and Jacob… "

"James."

"… and those two could go as a double date. Many women seem to either color coordinate in some way or alternately do all they can to see they are not dressed alike for events like this. We can't have fashion-related catfights on the ballroom floor at the estate of an English Marquess, can we, so I strongly encourage you to ring up Miss Cowan. Graham… "

" _Greg_."

"… won't have any objections, I'm sure. Just don't let him see the portrait or the drawings. Not that I really picture him leering at you, since he's all agog over that Ophelia... "

"Olivia."

"… woman. She likes him a great deal, too."

She sighed. Sometimes, talking to Sherlock was like playing tennis underwater and only being allowed to take a gulp of air if you could keep up with the ball coming at you again and again, like a rocket. As far as she knew, only she and John could manage.

He shrugged and pulled his gloves back on. "Well, stranger things have happened. People do form all sorts of attachments towards the oddest creatures, though I will admit sometimes it's perfectly understandable." He looked down to find Toby winding around his leg, stropping him with his tail—a sure sign that he liked the tall detective. He gently shoved the cat away, nodded, bade her a polite goodbye, and left. Molly turned and saw her reflection in the refrigerator door and squawked in horror.

White dots of blemish remover were on her chin and above her right eyebrow. A white smear was across her upper lip, hopefully killing off the beginnings of a pimple. Her eyebrows were freshly plucked, with the skin still a little reddish. Curel cream was spread thickly on her nose. She dropped her head into her hands and wished that her entire life had a rewind/erase button. If it did, she would never have pursued a career in pathology. She would have stayed near home, got a job in a petrol station and never met Sir David Livingstone-Hayes or Sherlock Holmes and her heart wouldn't be broken and her reputation would be in no danger of being anything other than utterly _dull_.

* * *

"See she gets the day off Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, and she will work a later shift Wednesday, in case she is tired from her exertions Tuesday evening. See all this is arranged immediately."

"But sir… "

"See to it. And remember that her employment at St. Bartholomew's remains written in stone, regardless of any future developments, and her promotions and increases in pay will continue as usual."

"But sir… I mean, it's not like she doesn't _qualify_ , but… "

"There's no point in arguing with me. How has that ever worked out for you in the past? All the other arrangements have been made for tomorrow, and everyone has been positioned into their places, and all necessary accommodations have been settled. Thank you and good day."

:: _click_ ::

* * *

"John, I need to let a tuxedo."

Watson looked up at Holmes, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, but do I look like I have any of those things just lying about?"

"Certainly not. But I will be out until about two o'clock looking for one. If I receive any calls in my absence, tell them that I have gone shopping for oranges."

"When did I become your secre—wait, _oranges_?"

"Yes."

"Navel oranges or those little shriveled things they call 'Cuties'?"

" _Oranges_."

"All right."

"I'll be back after two."

"Maybe you're shopping for Orange _men_? Football players from Armagh...?"

"You're hilarious, John. You should get your own chat show. I'm leaving." The door slammed and John snickered.

* * *

Molly paced back and forth in front of Dolce & Gabanna, wondering how on earth she had been talked into this. She had been intent on just going out to Oxfam or one of the charity shops and finding something appropriate for tomorrow night. She kept thinking about what Sherlock had said—to find something black. She couldn't imagine ever being able to afford something in Knightsbridge, but an awkward call to Olivia had resulted in her being cheerfully invited to join her for a day of shopping, lunch somewhere in Kensington ( _Kensington?!_ ) and a much-needed frivolity.

A sleek Aston-Martin pulled up to the kerb and Olivia Cowan got out, waving to the driver, who zoomed away. "Molly! Well, I'm glad I'm on time. Come on. There's nothing I like more than shopping on a Sunday morning. Not many other people about, and the salesgirls are required to be on their best behavior. They're not even allowed to be snotty toward girls from Alabama." Olivia didn't look like she was out shopping for clothes, though. She looked like she was going 'round the corner to buy bread and cheese, being in jeans, a T-shirt displaying the iconic picture of Che Guevera, but with the words 'murderer' and 'coward' splashed in red lettering across his face and 'Commies Aren't Cool' underneath, and trainers. "I prefer to shop in the mornings, anyway, so then I'll have the afternoon to get ready for whatever's coming in the evening." She grinned at Molly. "I got home from church and changed and rushed over here like a madwoman. Bummed a ride with one of the auctioneers. He drives as fast as he talks!"

"Oh. Right."

Olivia stepped into the store and Molly followed, uncertain and uneasy, but the experience turned out extremely pleasant. She was treated as though she were royalty and when she got out her card to pay for a new skirt and two blouses, the girl looked at her card and swallowed, then handed it back. "All paid for, miss."

"What?"

"All paid for."

" _What the bloody hell_?"

"Yes, ma'am." She smiled brightly and Molly didn't know what else to say. The girl settled the skirt and blouses into individual boxes and handed them over. Olivia came up, carrying two skirts and several blouses and paid for them, chatting amiably with the salesgirl. They went out into the sunny morning and Olivia hailed a cab.

"That's just starters. It's Chanel next, of course. I'm going to guess you don't have a little black dress, right? Every girl should have one. Of course, in my father's opinion, every girl should also have a gun and a buck knife."

"Guns aren't legal in England, Olivia," Molly said, settling in the cab with her and almost getting thrown forward when the car stopped at a light. The driver yelped suddenly and apologized to someone shouting at him through his mobile. "Sorry, won't happen again. It was an accident! Stop yelling, I've got a _headache_!"

"You don't need guns in England, Molly. You have kidney pie. Never mind that the criminals have the guns, though, and decent folks aren't allowed to defend themselves. Eight minutes for a cop or an ambulance, in general, and the guy with the gun isn't going to wait until they show up."

* * *

Molly was pleased with the results of her shopping excursion. The fact that she hadn't spent a shilling on anything but came away with _two_ black dresses from Chanel, blouses from Dolce & Gabanna, two elegant but summery frocks from Dior and a frothy thing from Laura Ashley, several skirts, half a dozen new blouses from other high-end shops, and a new Burberry coat (on sale). On top of that was a pair of leather boots, some really nice stiletto heels and a beautiful cultured pearl necklace that made her feel as though she had committed numerous robberies but would never be charged. Someone had paid for everything, and she had little trouble guessing who, but for now she wasn't going to dwell on it. She would return everything after the charity ball and hand him all the return receipts, just to make her point.

Just the same, when she tried on her Chanel dresses and stilettos and decided the slinkier one was the winner for tomorrow night, she looked at herself in her full-length mirror and felt like Holly Golightly. Olivia had offered to loan her a diamond necklace, to wind through her hair, and to balance that with simple diamond studs in her ears.

"Never go too far, Molly," Olivia had told her, during lunch. "It's a careful balance, you know. You want the man to be impressed with your looks, of course, but you don't want him to think he can't afford you or that he has to impress you, nor do you want him feeling insecure before you've even had a chance to talk to him. I know it's a cliché, but the best thing you can wear is _yourself._ I've dated rich men, poor men, and guys in between, Molly. Guys back home, aristocrats here and on the Continent, and guys in New York and California, and they're all the same. Once you get down to basics, men are really all the same everywhere. They need three things. Know what they are?"

They had been sitting at a table outside a little café, eating chocolate sundaes and not giving a damn about calories.

"What do they need?" Molly asked between bites of decadent ice cream and fudge.

"Food, sex and admiration. If they can swing all three at once they're really happy, but the food part comes easily if you know how to cook. The sex, at least as far as I'm concerned, is when he had enough nerve to stand in front of my Daddy and my brothers and marry me, but the admiration part has different layers. Some want a woman to ooh and ahh over him, but that's the true egoist and possibly the narcissist, and you _don't_ want them—they never grow up. They stay thirteen forever. The nice ones just like being treated with some respect with a dash of admiration, and really, what's more admirable than a decent, honest man who can fix the plumbing and can change a tire? I really don't think there's a war between the sexes, Molly. There's far too much fraternizing between enemies already, and I hate regarding men _as_ enemies—a race of alien robots fit only for destruction. _They're people._ Just as human and mixed up as us, but in different ways. I was lucky to have a mother who gave me good advice and brothers who'd beat the stuffing out of any guy who troubled me too much, but… " Olivia shrugged. "I've still had a few bad eggs along the way, of course. You learn from them, too. You learn what will burn you, but you also learn how to treat the good eggs. If you're just kind to most guys and show them some respect, they'll move mountains for you."

Molly had thought of Sherlock and knew that he only seemed to require one of those three basic things, much to her own personal despair, and he was _nothing_ like other men. He wasn't a bad egg, but his shell was unlikely to ever crack.

"And now you're dating a rather tired Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard," Molly had pointed out, smiling.

"I like him a lot more than the others," Olivia had said, smiling softly. "Last night I gave him cooking lessons—he can now make Southern-style biscuits from scratch! I know he's gained about four pounds since I met him—he loves chicken fried steak—but I don't care. He's adorable, and so easy-going and unpretentious and funny and just… _nice_ , and I like to think I'm making him feel better about his life, and besides that he's a great kisser. His cruel, cheating wife's loss is my gain!"

They had ended up giggling like schoolgirls, though Molly had been too shy to talk about Sherlock, much less the men she had dated in the past. Olivia might be more than a little appalled by her having dated James Moriarty, if only briefly, and even mentioning Tom made Molly feel _sleepy_.

It had been years since Molly had laughed so much. Her friend Meena was married now and had a new baby, and the last time they had spent time together had been at Christmas. Shortly after, Molly had watched her sister fall off the back patio and break her ankle. She had had to go into the house to giggle and be berated by her mother about it. That was, in fact, the last time she had really _laughed_.

She undressed, changed into her pajamas and sat weaver style in her father's old chair, eating Haagen-Daz and glad to have had one day without having to think about nude portraits and sketches, and even more, she found that Olivia had the marks of becoming a good friend as well—they came from different ends of the social scale but shared many interests and laughed at the same things. Plus, for all Olivia's worldliness, she was still remarkably modest, generous and kind.

She turned on the telly and found an old episode of _Frasier_ and smiled. Comfort TV. She watched Niles prepare for his Valentine's Day date, only to set fire to Frasier's couch, spray fire retardant all over the living room, and pass out at the door in his shorts while Eddie the dog ate the scorched remains of the ruined pasta dinner, which had been used to put the fire out as a desperate last resort. She laughed through the whole, almost entirely dialog-free scene.

She had just fallen asleep, dreaming about black dresses and people accidentally bidding by wiggling their ears or waving at friends, when she was startled awake by Sherlock sitting down across from her. "Really, Molly, it's far too easy to break into your flat. _Improve the damned locks_."

"Be glad I don't have a gun," she said wearily, too tired to freak out at finding him in her living room. _Again_. He had done that for two years while in his 'dead' stage. He pop would in, do experiments, critique her outfits, demand she be quiet while he worked, and sleep in her bed while she took the couch. For some reason, she hadn't minded. She hadn't let herself think anything of always waking up tucked neatly under a warm blanket and a cup of hot tea on the coffee table, fresh made, just for her. Odd how she would wake up just as the front door clicked shut…

Frankly, the reason she didn't mind his 'invasions' was because for those times, she had him to herself.

"Ah, so you've given up being angry at me."

"I'm too tired to be angry." She sat up and stretched, seeing that an episode of _I Love Lucy_ was playing. She smiled, remembering a bickerfest she and Sherlock had gotten into one night over that show—he had been bewildered about why Desi Arnaz couldn't play Desi. Again and again, he had asked why Desi had to play Ricky instead of _Desi_ ("He was the producer of the bloody show! I would think he could at least play _Desi_! Why couldn't he play Desi?"), and she had finally growled "He wasn't tall enough!" and told him to shut up already and let her watch Lucy stomp on grapes.

"Have a good day shopping?"

"Like you don't know. You terrorized that poor cab driver all day."

He drummed his fingers on the chair's arm. "Should have hired someone who wasn't a recovering alcoholic."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. Don't even think of returning those clothes, shoes or jewelry, by the way. They won't take them back. They are ordered, all, to declare each item damaged."

"You can't do stuff like that, Sherlock," she warned.

"Of course I can. I already did."

"It's… "

"Kind?"

"Silly."

"Hardly. Miss Cowan is correct in her statement that every woman should have a little black dress. The knife and gun part… well, I suppose if I had a daughter I would insist she carry both as well, and besides, Miss Cowan is an American. They give guns to their pets in America."

Molly rolled her eyes. "I can't imagine you with a daughter," Molly said, yawning. She stood. "I'm not even going to ask how you managed to overhear our conversation. I'm going to bed. Let yourself out."

"You're looking very nice, by the way. Can't you make me some tea?" he asked, looking his most charming, but she shook her head.

"Sod off, William Scott Sherlock Holmes. I know your game. I'm going to bed."

He grinned and waited until he heard her bedroom door shut before getting up. He went to the brown paper bag he had left in the kitchen and went to work on replacing her locks. Installing a security system would take more time, of course, and would require consulting with Molly about a security code only she and he would know (and possibly John and Lestrade), but he would have it done before dawn and would check on her before he left. Once finished with the locks, he would put a new key on her chain, replacing the older one, and she would be none the wiser. Of course, she might get a little concerned if an entire SWAT team arrived at her door if she accidentally tried to use the _wrong_ key…

He needed to issue a few warnings to concerned parties, and stored the detail into his memory. _If the wrong key is used in any lock on any door at Molly's flat, first send me a text and proceed at my order. No bursting in and scaring her half to death, and her cat does_ bite… _and she's a bloody good slapper._

He had been checking on Molly, after all, since learning about the nude pictures. Actually, he had been checking on her nightly since finding out Moriarty was still alive, but now it was absolutely essential that he knew she was safe before he went home for the night. Somehow, the idea of her being left alone and defenseless was too much for him to bear. He hadn't told John or anyone else about his late-night visits to Molly's flat, and he wouldn't, but it made something settle and calm in him when he saw her sleeping, safe and sound and _protected_. Her physical safety had been imperative before, and it was more important now than anything in his world.

She needn't know about the innovative recognition software he had installed in every room in her flat. It was not a CCTV, of course, but it would immediately alert him if anyone entered her house besides Molly, himself, John, Mary, Lestrade, her rather nice mother and her catty sister or any of her carefully vetted colleagues at St. Bart's, including that boring Meena person who had since married and borne that hideous demon child; and as of yesterday, that practically opaque James Crane.

He made another mental note. _Make sure to enter John's daughter into the profile. Babies are rarely capable of home invasions, though the smells they emit can lead to home evacuations, but I doubt John would appreciate the police showing up if Mary dropped by for a visit with little Poppet._ He sent a quick text to himself. _Also include Olivia Cowan on the list. Run complete background check, too._

Toby wandered over and inspected Sherlock's shoe as he worked on the locks, and he absently scratched the cat's ears. "Don't think this will become a habit," he told the cat before shooing it away.

Even though it already was.

* * *

Monday morning dawned bright and cheerful. Molly woke feeling tired and anxious, as she did on any bright day, like any English person. The charity ball was tonight. She would be there in a dress worth more than she made in a month, and would be on the arm of a man she frankly couldn't even picture in her mind, he was so boring. Plus the pictures would be in the next room, possibly being looked at by potential buyers and discussed at length.

They weren't dirty pictures, of course. There really was nothing sexual about them at all. She knew her breasts were too small to star in any man's dreams, and her legs were too _coltish_ for a ZZ Top video, and while she had little to worry about over her weight, she was best described as 'thin', not 'svelte'. Her sister was the beauty in the family, and had accordingly snatched up a rich husband and squeezed out three kids between Pilates and visits to the hair salon and had never had a pimple in her life. Emma and her boob of a husband lived in a big house out in the country and Molly saw her at Christmas every year and had a headache for three days afterwards.

Feeling a terrible sinking feeling all day, Molly nonetheless underwent the normal pre-evening soiree routines. She had her hair done at a salon near where she lived, then had her face done up by a with-it girl at the counter in a certain higher-end department store. Finally, at about four o'clock, she called Olivia and took her up on her offer to borrow the diamond necklace. Olivia was at her flat in less than ten minutes, carrying the necklace in a light blue box. Oh God, Molly thought. _Tiffany's_.

"Come on, sit down here and we'll get it set just right. Oh, they did a nice job on your hair. Brings out the natural touch of red very well." Olivia carefully began winding the long diamond chain into Molly's carefully coiffed and piled hair. "There you are. Nicely dolled up, though I don't think you really needed all that much help." Molly looked at herself in her mirror and wished she didn't look so _scared_ —her eyes were HUGE!

"I wish I was pretty," Molly said as she peered anxiously in the mirror, remembering standing in front of that mirror in Sir David's studio, naked save a black skirt held against her midriff. She had felt just as… _ordinary_ then as she did now. Probably always would.

"You're joking, right? You're very pretty."

"No. I don't think so."

Olivia shook her head. "Well, I spent a few years as a model, Molly, and I can tell you, the majority of them don't look anything like the pictures of 'em you'll see in magazines. Many of them are the miracle of makeup and photoshopping, though most of them are really sweet if you give them half a chance." She shrugged. "Of course, the models know to be sweet to the prep girls or you end up strutting down the catwalk and having your skirt fall off. I also spent a year in Paris, and the French girls will tell you that when a girl _thinks_ she's pretty, then she _is_."

"I don't want French girls thinking I'm pretty," Molly muttered. She stood and slipped into the high heeled shoes and briefly teetered, remembering the green knit dress her sister had worn once that made her look like a zipper. That alone made her smile and feel guilty at once. Emma was her _sister_ and so long as she didn't have to put up with her more than twice yearly, she did love her. Sort of. It was just that Emma always did her best to make her feel like crap.

"True that. I'd much rather a nice man think I was pretty." Olivia eyed Toby for a moment, and Molly sensed she was not a cat lover. She was clearly a tolerant sort, because she casually stroked the cat's back and he was respectful in his response to the gesture, rubbing his head against her hand before strolling away. "And I suspect Greg will look _very_ dashing in his tux."

"Yes, I think he will, too." Molly smiled. "He's very sexy but hasn't a clue that he is. Best kind of bloke, in my book."

Olivia grinned. "And since I have a larger car, he and I will swing by to pick up you and James this evening, about six o'clock, is that okay?"

"That'll be fine."

"Great." Olivia smiled and left. Molly sat down and waited, dreading the events coming and having no means of stopping the tide.

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the crowd of people already gathered in the vast, chandelier-infested marble-floored ballroom of Granville House, making a quick count of the number of guests, the number of exits, and the positions of each waiter. He heard idle chatter all around, but he tuned everyone out who wasn't saying something of real or potential interest. He snatched up a canapé-laden tray, checked his image in a woman's compact mirror as she paused in the doorway for a last minute make-up check, and sidled right in, his upper lip carefully smudged with two black marks and his hair carefully combed and under control for the next few hours at least.

"… paintings in the Master's Hall are breathtaking… "

"… told him to take his hands off my… "

"… can have India, I'll take South Africa and he can have Australia… "

"… potatoes, chicken and green beans, lots of butter, some Italian seasoning… "

"… just a backbencher, but I can give you a tour… "

"… know I'll bid on everything, but I'd love to buy that one… _The Girl in the Mirror_. It's _very_ nice and so… "

Sherlock eyed the man who had said that and doubled back, pausing a moment to assess him. Huh. _Heading toward retirement. Successful diamond importer. Happily married, grown children, enjoys riding, collects art. Bland but loaded down with scruples._

"Canapé, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, thanks," Diamond Importer said, taking one for himself and two for his wife. Sherlock moved on, sticking him into his file, pondering potential usefulness.

"… damned good champagne… "

"… lots of hot women about. Wonder if any were in the paintings?" Laughter. Sherlock glared briefly at a university-age guy chinwagging with a group of fellow non-academians. Sherlock continued on, serving out canapés and being unnoticed. He was almost out of canapés, though, by the time he reached the end of the room and had to start back, mumbling apologies for his lack of sufficient supplies as he dodged through the crowds. He got to the doors and almost ran into Greg Lestrade, on whose arm was the breathtaking Olivia Cowan, but _where was Molly_? Panic surged through him—was she all right? If she was wearing those spiked heels, she might have gotten stuck in the grass outside and her companion looked about as useful as a pile of feathers. Sherlock put the tray down on a table and all but galloped outside.

He finally saw her coming up the steps and quickly ducked behind a pillar in the marble front hallway.

She was standing with James Whathisname (Bird? Heron? Parrot? Ibis?) in the doorway, being greeted by the Marquess and Marchioness of Canton. She was wearing a black dress of some kind, and it fit her perfectly, leaving her smooth shoulders bare and her legs long and slender and really quite smashing. Around her shoulders was a silk black shawl thing (Mary had said those things were called Pashminas, which Sherlock thought was some kind of vaccination), and she was given about four extra inches of height by black stilettos. Her hair was up in a graceful and deceptively simple braid type thing, with a diamond necklace artfully twisting through her dark tresses, and her face was not overly made up and her eyes were _huge_ and bright and a little nervous, but if _she_ was nervous, Sherlock Holmes was completely and utterly _wrecked_.

* * *

He had to avoid her, of course. The last thing Molly needed was to get even more nervous. The charity ball, complete with dancing (mating ritual, seeing if he had rhythm and if she had a sense of humor or at least some degree of pity), talking, networking, dropping wads of money into a barrel, and drinking champagne, went on. Olivia slow danced with Lestrade and was clearly having a very good time, though she never touched the alcohol and neither did Lestrade. Molly danced twice with James and once with Lord Norris (who made no untoward moves, which saved him getting sucker punched by a tall, increasingly agitated detective). Molly later danced again with Lestrade and Lord Norris danced with Olivia, and they all seemed to be having a grand time. Sherlock served canapés and carefully stayed out of Molly's line of vision.

"Well?"

"Well what?" He turned and came face to face with a beautiful but hard-looking woman in a red dress.

"Aren't you going to serve more champagne? Your tray is empty. I'm sure neither the Marquess nor Lord Norris would be pleased at any sort of lax service tonight."

Sherlock gave her a hard once-over. _Posh accent. Educated beyond her intelligence, but knows art and its monetary value. Has never done her own hair or nails. Heavy lipstick to fill out thin lips. Heavy eye makeup, in vain attempt to bring out dull brown eyes. Too much rouge. Great Worshipful Queen of All the Sodding Bitches._

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Sherlock answered in a Cockney accent and bowing before slinking away.

* * *

Olivia's mouth twitched. "Watch out. Rosamund Livingstone-Hayes at two o'clock."

"Who?" Greg asked, snagging a prawn as it was carried by. He paused a moment, blinking, thinking the waiter looked kind of familiar, but he was focused on Olivia, not any of the currently dancing and/or schmoozing guests at the ball. But on being alerted to the presence of someone who seemed unpleasant, his training immediately kicked in and he tensed, scanning the room for hostiles. He spotted that waiter again and moved a little closer and nearly spat up the prawn when he saw it was Sherlock Holmes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Holmes offered the plate of prawns and Lestrade figured it would be best to just take one. "Stealing."

"Like hell you are! Not even you would be dumb enough to steal anything here now, with all these people about, and what if somebody's car alarm goes off? You'll wet your pants."

Sherlock glared at him. "That was an aberration, as I told you in the cab."

"You _gasped_ it in the cab. I had to give you a paper bag to breathe into."

"Will you shut up," Sherlock hissed. "I'm on a case."

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "The case about the naked bird?"

"You really do have a knack for reducing things down to their most _appalling_ levels, Gordon."

" _Greg_."

"Whatever. Listen, guests at balls aren't commonly seen talking to the Help, so please return to your lady friend there and let me do my bloody job."

"And what would that be?"

"My bloody _job_."

"Stealing is your bloody job? You can't _steal_ any of the portraits, including the one of the naked bird," Lestrade pointed out, taking a sip of champagne. Olivia didn't care for alcohol, so he was laying off it, but Sherlock Holmes could start the Archbishop of Canterbury on a binge.

"You haven't seen it, have you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly anxious. Lestrade was an honest man, and a decent one, but the sight of Molly Hooper in the buff could make the man uneasy around her, and she didn't need more stress…

"No, but then I don't even know what I'd be looking for. Remember you wouldn't tell me her name."

Sherlock's attention was diverted from Lestrade by the sight of Molly Hooper walking right up to him, mayhem in her eyes. She grabbed Sherlock's arm, fingernails digging right through his sleeve. "What are you doing here?" she asked sharply but, fortunately, in a whisper.

"Serving prawns," Sherlock answered loftily. "Once I run out of these, it'll be canapés again, I'm sure. They smell like Death's homeless sister, by the way, so they must be wonderful."

"Are you _crazy_?" she hissed.

"I'm here aren't I?" Sherlock growled, offering a prawn to a passing tax assessor in a cheap tuxedo.

"What if someone recognizes you?"

Lestrade was watching this exchange with no small amount of amusement, and it didn't take him long to realize what Holmes was doing here, and why Molly Hooper looked ready to clobber the detective. He started to speak but clapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel, returning to Olivia's side to watch the show.

"No one will recognize me. Tuxedoes bring distinction to friends and anonymity to… "

"Shut up, you nit!" Molly snapped. "Don't try your ten-pound words on me. I'm only just starting to be able to eat a bloody prawn and here _you_ are making this whole experience a living hell and _oh my God my sister is here_?!"

Sherlock was startled by her vehement anger, but put that on hold to turn around and see a good-looking woman in a glittery black dress coming into the ballroom on the arm of a man who looked like he wished he were elsewhere. Sherlock looked between her and Molly and found the other woman very lacking. She was attractive, but she didn't shine with intelligence and courage. He turned on his heel from Molly, who hissed something at him that sounded like "Don't you dare!" and strode smoothly over to Molly's sister. "Champagne, madame?"

"Thanks," the woman said, taking a flute. "Molly! I didn't know you would be here. In fact, I'm stunned you're here. This is hardly your _milieu_."

For a moment Molly looked like she wanted the ballroom floor to crack open and swallow her, but Sherlock couldn't keep from smiling when she squared her smooth, silky shoulders and faced her sister like a spy would face a firing squad. "Emma."

Olivia Cowan came up, elegant in soft greens and blues, with the dashingly tuxedoed Lestrade at her side, and moved up alongside Molly. The young pathologist made introductions.

"Oh! The zipper!" Olivia said, and Molly glimpsed Sherlock snickering as he served prawns to a member of Parliament. Olivia immediately recognized her _faux pas_ but didn't seem extremely repentant, and Molly wondered if the _faux pas_ had even been unintentional. Emma glared at Olivia.

"I see you're an American," Emma said, as though that was some kind of sin worthy of a social snubbing.

"Yes, but I'll try not to look down my nose at you," Olivia smiled sweetly. "We can't help having a more effective military, faster racehorses and better food."

Sherlock, serving prawns to a group of starving artists, snickered again, deciding he rather liked Olivia Cowan. Besides, her background check had been clean but _extremely_ interesting.

* * *

Molly now had a good idea of what hell was like. Apparently it was occupied by stuck-up snobs, a hired orchestra playing intrusive pieces from Mozart and Bach, waiters (including Sherlock Holmes!) serving prawns and canapés, and a date with the personality of a dial tone. She had tried to make light conversation with James, to no avail, and now she was sitting outside on a stone bench, staring out across the glimmering water of a fountain spraying water from a statue of what was either Hermes or Eros.

"I can't believe you're out here _hiding_."

Molly turned and glared at Sherlock, who casually sat down beside her.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"There's a question for the ages. I don't begin to know the answer, though I could hazard a few guesses… "

"Why are you _here_? Serving prawns. What, are you spying on me or something?"

He paused, looking across at the moonlit water fountain. "Keeping an eye on things. Assessing the crowd that will be attending the auction tomorrow."

"They're a bit moot, Sherlock," she said bitterly. "Trevor Grant has more money than God and will easily outbid any of them."

"Quite true, but God is unlikely to make any bids at the auction tomorrow," he said. "And I've often heard the phrase, 'When men plan, God laughs'. I can only assume Grant has heard the phrase, too, and ought to step carefully."

She sniffed. "You don't believe in God," she said. Since John and Mary's wedding, Molly had been saddened to learn that Sherlock didn't believe. She had never been so hardened by science to toss God out of the equation. To her, God _was_ the equation, and she liked having faith in something bigger than herself and the rather cold world around her.

"I am open to possibilities," he said quietly. "Well, somewhat. I'd hate to give up my reputation for being heartlessly rational."

"You are not completely heartless, Sherlock," she said softly. "But you are always irrational. Just ask John."

"Oh, yes I am... heartless, that is," he said. "And very fortunate to be a high-functioning sociopath, so I gave up my heart some years ago." He stood and held out his hand to her. Molly shyly took it and let him help her back to her feet. "Now go back in there and enjoy yourself, even though your date is about as interesting as watching grass grow."

She giggled in spite of herself. "I suppose I'll have to dance with him."

"Well, you do have to dance with the one who brought you, but it is bad form to fall asleep while dancing. Dance with him when you have to jump and gyrate about. That way he needn't actually touch you."

"My feet hurt," she said, taking his arm when he offered it. "These stilettos are _murder_. I really should have worn my trainers."

"Well, they do make your legs and your arse look nice."

She stared up at him, startled, and he looked vaguely… bewildered? Sherlock bowed slightly and slipped away when they reached the door. He had canapés to serve.

* * *

"James, touch me there again and you'll be pulling back a bloody stump."

He was inebriated, of course.

"Aw, c'mon, Mols. Surely you could spare a proper snog, eh?" he said, weaving drunkenly but taking her warning to heart.

"I'm sorry, but I'm saving them up for a rainy day, and even then you can't have one. _Out_."

Lestrade and Olivia had both been annoyed with him while driving home, as he had started singing _I'm Gonna F*ck You Tonight_ , a lovely and romantic ballad to be sure, and Lestrade had insisted on walking Molly up to her door while holding James upright with one hand. "I'll pour him into a cab, I promise," Molly had assured the irritated detective, who had finally accepted that she could take care of herself. She had to laugh about it later, of course—Greg really was a sweet man, and Olivia was bringing out the best in him by being sweet to him in turn. Considering James lived in the opposite direction from her house and far out of Lestrade's way, Molly had opted for patience on her own part rather than risk James being pepper-sprayed by Olivia or pummeled by Lestrade.

Just the same, James the Boring was James the Horny while drunk, and after calling a cab and shoving him out the door, Molly waited until he was definitely in the cab before locking up for the night and sighing when she heard that all-too-familiar _beep_ that indicated the security system and recognition software was up and running. She knew Sherlock had not installed any CCTV system anywhere in her house (she would _kill_ him if he did), but that tiny, slightly tinny sound was part of her everyday life now and there was no point in arguing with him about it. Since Moriarty's 'resurrection', everyone was a little more than on edge and Sherlock's attempts to convince her to move upstairs at Baker Street had fallen on deaf ears, so of course he had broken into her flat and installed all this blasted security software instead. Did he really think she hadn't _noticed_? Bloody hell, there was even a new key on her chain, which meant he had also switched out the locks. Her landlord was either very understanding, unobservant or intimidated, because he hadn't made a peep about it.

She kicked off her stilettos, wiggling her toes as she made her way into the living room, and paused briefly to look around, senses somewhat alert but dulled by exhaustion. Tonight had been fun and exciting and interesting, to say the least, and she had rubbed shoulders with MPs and Peers of the Realm and come away unscathed. In fact, it had been rather startling that _two_ people high up in the Order of Precedence had asked for her number and had flirted with her. Molly Hooper, Doctor of Pathology and denizen of St. Bart's Morgue, getting hit on by a future Duke and second son of a Scottish Earl!

Not that she had accepted, though. She wasn't interested.

"I'm relieved to know you didn't accept that dinner date with that Duke's son. He drinks to excess and there are rumors of cross-dressing."

She sighed and shook her head. "There's no use asking how you got in here."

Sherlock, seated casually in her dad's old chair, idly cracked his knuckles. "No, there's not."

"I rather doubt you fit down the chimney."

He stood up. "I am glad you had fun, though."

"As much as could be expected with my sister there," she muttered. Molly carefully removed the diamond necklace from her hair, unwinding it and letting her hair down, then pulling it back into a ponytail again. There now. Let the Real Molly stand up, she thought with a rueful smile.

"Sibling enmity is hardly unusual, but considering her husband is obviously cheating on her, I wouldn't let her superior attitude get to you too much."

"Cheating… ?" Molly looked at him, and was startled by how close he was to her. How did he do that? He moved more silently than her cat.

"Yep."

"How can you tell?"

"Observation, obviously, and also the Ashley Madison hack is, sadly, the end of many marriages. I'm surprised Emily… "

"Emma."

"… hasn't checked herself."

Molly sighed and shook her head. "Emma will be devastated. Besides, she's got three kids and that will put them through the wringer. They don't deserve that."

"They don't deserve an arsehole for a father, either, but there you are."

Molly went in search of the bag of kibble for Toby, who immediately trotted into the kitchen to await his meal. She poured him a bit and scratched his ears. "How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Oh, about ten minutes or so. Long enough to see that Jonah… "

"James."

"…jackass make a grab for your… um… well, I'm relieved that you sent him packing."

Molly got a bottle of Coke out of her refrigerator and opened it. She took a swig and sighed. "Well, he didn't have much to grab for, did he?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his mouth set into a firm, strangely angry line. "Well. I should be going."

"You don't want some tea?" she asked, with just a slight teasing edge to her voice.

"No. I don't want _tea_."

"Then why are you here? Surely you don't think I couldn't handle a drunken pathologist."

"Just making sure you got home safe. Granted, you had Lestrade and Octavia… "

"Olivia."

"… with you, so I suppose you were safe."

"I was, yes, and I also have my fists, my knees and my teeth, so I can defend myself when required." She took another drink. "My dad taught me how to defend myself. The 'S.I.N.G.' defense."

"The what?"

"S.I.N.G. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Very effective."

"I see. Well. Then I guess I should go."

"Did you really think something was going to happen to me?" she asked.

"I… " He looked toward the door for a moment, thinking. "I am always concerned for your safety, Molly."

"I'm not a child. I can take care of myself."

"Oh, I know that. But you also weigh, what, one hundred ten pounds soaking wet? You keep your nails short, and your hands are very small. I know you can pack a punch and you're damned good at _slapping_ , but dangerous people are out there and even the ones not out to get to _me_ are just as lethal, and the one who is definitely after _me_ has no qualms about using _you_ to that end."

"Thus the security software you've installed all over my flat," she said.

"The… er… "

"Yes. _Beep_."

" _Damn_!" he hissed.

"Don't use profanity around my cat," she said.

"You don't use profanity around _racehorses_ , Molly. You can curse all you like around cats. Foul language around dogs irritates them, but horses are deeply offended by purple prose."

She couldn't keep from laughing. "All right. Go home. I'm safe. See?" She gestured around the living room. "No men in black skulking about, save a tuxedoed and tired detective."

"Tired?"

"You look like you've been ridden hard and put up wet. Don't you ever _sleep_?"

"I sleep when the case is solved."

"It is solved. Trevor Grant will buy the painting and the sketches and use them for whatever purpose he desires. He'll probably sell them to someone even more vile, like Larry Flynt, and make a nice bundle, too. It's no matter. I can deal. I'm a grownup, and that means I have to deal with consequences of things I did when I wasn't quite so grown-up."

"You shouldn't have to _deal_ , and you won't. Be sure of that."

"Sherlock… "

He shook his head, silently telling her it was useless to argue. "I should go, though. I do have business to attend to." He started toward the door, and Molly stepped aside, her back against the wall, and she sighed, shaking her head. He was like a dog with a bone once he started on something and nothing would stop him until he saw it through. He went to the door and turned the handle, but stopped suddenly. "Wait, I did have something else… "

"Oh? What? I don't think you should drink coffee at this hour… "

Sherlock paced back to her, pushed her gently against the wall and kissed her. For a moment, she froze, but her hand slowly moved up to touch his hair—God, she had _always_ wanted to touch his hair—and it was then that his tongue touched her lips and his hands moved confidently to her waist. Molly sighed into his mouth and had she not known any better she would have sworn she heard him moan as he deepened the kiss, his tongue silky against her own and his hands moving up to gently stroke her and make sure she felt his desire.

He let go of her just as suddenly and left her, taking two steps to the door, opening it and closing it behind him with a firm _click._

She heard the faint _beep_ again and closed her eyes, not entirely sure that what had happened had in fact happened, but one thing she was absolutely sure of: everything had changed.


	4. Somewhat Compromising 4

**American Pharoah lost the Travers to Keen Ice today (congrats to a nice horse, by the way—the bridesmaid was finally the bride today), so I'm bummed. Saratoga is known as the Graveyard of Champions. Secretariat and Man o' War lost there. I keep having to tell myself that to feel better. Not that it really helps.**

 **And yes, I am an American, from the South (I watch a lot of BBC America and Britcoms galore). Not the Deep South, mind. Texas, to be more precise, but I was born in Louisiana. I do love Southern cooking and not even the Yankees can make me give up buttermilk biscuits and correct pronunciation. I do not say 'you'uns' and 'y'all' is only appropriate when speaking to or about plural people.**

 **If I were not so utterly lazy, I would haul out the DVD of the particular episode of** _ **WKRP in Cincinnati**_ **upon which this chapter is loosely based. But I am lazy (ask my friends and family!) so I didn't and I'm going on poor memory here. But I'm hoping this works. Next chapter will likely be the last.**

* * *

"What do you mean I have the day off? Why should I have the day off?"

Dr Smythe shrugged. "You're not on the schedule. Go home."

"But… "

The man gave her an annoyed and slightly agitated glare. "Doctor Hooper, you are not on the schedule. Go home."

"Oh God, have I been fired?" she asked in a shaking whisper.

"Like bloody hell you have," Smythe grouched at her. "You're off today. We'll expect you here at three o'clock tomorrow, though."

Flabbergasted, Molly gave up and went back to her locker to retrieve her bag. She _had_ been on the schedule—she knew that, as she always checked her hours the week before, just to coordinate plans. Not that she usually _had_ plans for anything outside St. Bart's, but just the same she liked knowing things ahead of time. This sudden change smelled fishy, but she supposed she ought not to look gift horses in the mouth.

Going outside, she paused in the alleyway and checked her phone and smiled when she saw Olivia had texted her.

 **Found a nice restaurant in Soho. Excellent Chinese. Want to join me for lunch? – Olivia**

 **Sounds good to me. I'm at loose ends today, as it turns out. No work 'til 3p tomorrow. – MH**

 **Fab! Meet me at Zang's at 11.30 and then we'll load up on calories at Patissiere Valerie. Will send directions to former. – Olivia**

 **Sounds good! - MH**

Molly had a few errands to run before time to meet Olivia, and was frankly grateful for them, because they would keep her mind off what had happened.

She had sat in her dad's old chair for the rest of the night, wide awake, staring at the television, which she hadn't even turned on. She had managed to change out of her dress and remove her makeup, then went back to her chair and sat there until time to go to work. All she could think about and see and feel had been Sherlock. Kissing her. In her hallway. Against the wall. In her flat. At three in the morning, and he had touched her in a totally unscientific, non-data-collecting, unplatonic, very sexual manner.

She couldn't deny being thrilled. Actually, she had wished she had someone to call at such an hour to tell them about it. In fact, to be more precise, she wished he had stayed a while and after he left she would then call somebody to talk about it (or squeal like a dolphin on meth). As she was getting ready to go to work, in fact, Toby had come ambling in for his breakfast and she had told him about it. _He kissed me, Toby. I had to have imagined it, but for argument's sake, maybe he really did. But what do I do now? What if he was just being… something? Whatever he was being, it has me completely elated, nervous and even a little frightened, and God help me but how I wish he would kiss me again. But I'm just Molly and he's Sherlock and he's married to his work. It had to be my imagination._

Just the same, she had grocery shopping to do. So she got a cab and headed over to the market near her flat, but she soon forgot all about shopping and stood in front of a tank of doomed lobsters, watching the huge cockroach-like creatures stare at each other, waiting for someone to say 'That one amuses me, I'll take him'. The butcher behind the display cases eyed her briefly. "Buyin' anything, miss?" he finally said.

"Oh… um… " She looked at the slabs of salmon and remembered that she really didn't like fish or crustaceans or seafood in general. "No, thank you. Just… er… "

"Good morning, Molly."

She turned around and stared at Sherlock, who looked very… uneasy. His eyes were moving all over the place but not looking directly at her, and that made something skitter about and crouch, waiting, nervous, in her chest.

"Good morning, Sherlock." Well. So we're pretending it didn't happen? Of course. He doesn't _do_ relationships…

"Yes. Well. Um… I was hoping to run into you here."

"You don't shop here," she pointed out and grabbed her cart.

His mouth twisted slightly. "Well, no, but I know you do."

"Of course. Your spies are still everywhere."

"Keeps them out of trouble. But be that as it may. I wanted to talk to you."

"Yes. Right." She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. He paused, finally settling his blue-green gaze on her and she drew in her breath.

"I wanted to… apologize."

Her words turned to dust in her mouth and she swallowed. _What?_ "Apologize?"

"Yes. My behavior last night was appalling and I can assure you, nothing of that sort will ever happen again."

She froze, staring up him, at first confused and then…

Then…

 _Furious_.

"You're apologizing to me?" she whispered, the nervous something in her chest becoming dangerous now, rising up on all fours, growling. Full-blown _rampage_ dangerous. Call the police, set up perimeters, consider enlisting the aid of The Avengers because Molly Hooper was now officially thoroughly _hacked_.

"Yes. Of course, Molly. The boundaries of our relationship were changed last night in an extremely unacceptable fashion and… "

" _You're apologizing to me?_ " she said, her voice just a little louder.

"Yes, I believe we've established that, and I can only hope you will accept my apology and we can… "

" _ **You're apologizing to me**_?!" she shouted, stomping her foot and clenching her fists. The butcher looked up and Sherlock looked around, noting several other shoppers standing around, definitely for sure absolutely not listening and doing all sorts of very quiet things to indicate that they weren't listening. The butcher had ceased pounding on a thick slab of beef and was instead examining his knife as though he had never seen one before. A woman with a toddler carefully stuffed his pacifier into his mouth and shushed him 'so Mummy can select the perfect leg of lamb' even though she was looking into a bin of bags of shrimp. A man nearby began to carefully examine his shoelaces while another woman stared up at the board above the butcher's, meticulously examining the price of limburger cheese, which no sane person would ever buy, much less eat.

"Yes, Molly, I am apologizing," he said, as though explaining the concept of breathing to a very thick child.

"You… oh, God, you… big stupid sodding _JERK_!" Molly closed her eyes, clenched her fists together and kicked Sherlock Holmes in the shin.

He shouted a vile expletive, dropped down onto his knee and fell onto his side, hissing a series of even more vile curses. Molly forgot all about her shopping, leaving her cart behind and stalked away, fuming and muttering about stupid men. The mother with the child and imaginary leg of lamb glared at Sherlock, who managed somehow to sit up and lean against the deli counter while he caught his breath.

* * *

"Okay, so while I don't know you extremely well yet, and perhaps I'm not the very best judge of human behavior, it can't be too much of a stretch for me to say that you are _angry_."

Molly looked across the table at Olivia, who was nibbling lightly on a piece of apple strudel.

"What makes you think that?" Molly asked. She looked down at her plate and gasped in shock—she had viciously and hatefully destroyed a perfectly innocent Kaiserschmarrn, and it lay in sad, mortally wounded pieces, not a bite eaten. Powdered sugar was all over the place, particularly on Molly's own hands. She squeaked in embarrassment and began cleaning her fingers with her serviette.

"I murder my food when I'm pissed off, too," Olivia said. "What did he do?"

"Wh-what did who do?" Molly asked.

"Tall, not-surprisingly-pale—he is _English_ —detective with aqua-blue eyes, dark hair and a haughty demeanor," Olivia nodded. "I saw him at the ball, of course. Terrible waiter." She smiled and thanked the waitress when she came by and refreshed her coffee. "He obviously has you ready to become as much a heartless, murdering arsonist as General Sherman."

"I… he… er… "

" _You_ definitely. _He_ obviously. The 'er' remains unanswered. Come on. Out with it. I've got two ears. Just keep the profanity to a minimum."

"He apologized!" Molly finally hissed.

Olivia's mouth opened, then closed and her brow furrowed as she stared quizzically at Molly, then she put her fork down and leaned forward. "I think I missed part of that story, Molly. We women generally like it when men apologize to us, but kicking them in the shin for doing so does seems somewhat… unfair. So… rewind, please. But let's be clear—he apologized to you for some egregious sin and you kicked him in the shin?"

"I kicked him in the shin, and believe me, he deserved it!" Molly spat, letting her fury overcome any sense of logic.

"Well." Olivia sat back in her chair. "That always helps, though that doesn't seem to be a rewind of the story. I've often kicked men in the shin after they've apologized to me, and naturally those relationships carry on, as evidenced by me currently having _nine_ boyfriends. Hard juggle, but it's doable—you just don't introduce them to each other and use fake names. It does keep things interesting and always makes matters so much clearer between us and what in the name of Mother _Dixie_ are you talking about?"

"He… he… _kissed_ me and then he apologized for it!"

Olivia's eyebrows lifted in comprehension. "Ah. I see. There's the logic." The other woman shook her head. "You know, I like men. I always have. I was raised to be respectful toward them, but not worshipful—my mother always said that behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes, but she never did that to Daddy, and he is a great man by all accounts. I like the way men look at things and their desire to solve problems and their need to protect us and their ability to open a jar of pickles when called upon, but good Lord they can be stupid sometimes. Not that we don't often give them a run for their money in the 'dumb as a post' department, as I did when I was sixteen and loudly declared to my mother that my boyfriend at the time was _definitely_ a good person, and how could she think otherwise, what with him doing two hundred hours of community service and all. But there's stupid and then there's _stupid_."

"Indeed! I'm glad you agree!" Molly growled. "I just don't understand. For years I've… "

"Carried a torch for him?" She smiled. "And I'm not talking about a flashlight, either."

Molly looked down at the ruined Kaiserschmarrn and sighed.

"Burns you like a brand, too, I suspect, and he's only just coming 'round and then he blows it, right?"

"Coming 'round?"

"Well, let's face it, Molly, it's obvious he returns your feelings. I saw the way he was looking at you last night."

"H-how was he looking at me?" Molly finally took a bite of her Kaiserschmarrn. It was delicious, but it didn't soothe her rage. She wanted to shout at Sherlock and then slap him and call him a sodding prat and then kiss him again, which made her even angrier, because he still had such a hold over her. Even during her exhausting relationship with Tom, she had still thought about Sherlock, and still dreamed about him and fantasized about him (much to Tom's consternation and the end of their engagement).

"The way a fat man looks at fried food. Now listen—if you want him, you're going to have to get him to chase you until you can catch him."

"What? Chase… now, that's just so… archaic."

Olivia snorted. "Get real, Molly. Toss out all those silly notions you learned in Women's Studies courses. Bunk, the lot of it—they're taught by women who have never been able to get along with men, mainly because they themselves are snotty bitches who take such a high intellectual line that they take all the fun out of being smart and forget to be simply human and that men are human, too… and let's face it, most of those women want to outlaw good manners, cotillions, venison stew and anything remotely funny. You're as likely to find a sensible woman teaching one of those courses as you are to find a divinity professor who believes in God. It's time you put those new clothes you bought to your advantage, and if he _still_ thinks he shouldn't chase you, then that's his lonely funeral and one day he'll wake up and see you married to somebody else, because yes, Molly Hooper, you are the marrying kind, and you'll be a fabulous wife and mother, just as you are clearly a fabulous pathologist. At first I thought Holmes was asexual, but if he's asexual I'm the freakin' Pope—maybe with him it's simply a matter of lack of practice, rather than lack of normal desire. Women have had to get their men to chase them for _centuries_ , and when the time is right you spring your trap and he can't get away and if he's not a complete bonehead he won't _want_ to get away."

"What little trap?" Molly asked, intrigued.

"Well, it's not just the old honey trap. It's other stuff—lures _to_ the trap, I suppose we should say. I have a slight advantage, in being a Southern belle from a military family. We Cowans have seen service in every war on American soil since the French and Indian War, and then we served in our wars overseas with great distinction, and my youngest brother is currently in an undisclosed location somewhere in God's Wash'n'Dry, pickin' off terrorists. The women in my family, meanwhile, know a little about how to handle alpha males and how to get them to marry them or at least ask them out to dinner _and_ those alpha males know to be gentlemen, too, because we don't put up with foolishness. We also know to how to dress, sit, walk, stand and speak correctly, but also how how to field dress a rifle in less than thirty seconds, skin a buck, run a trout line and grow tomatoes. All that stuff is of practical value. We country folks can survive." She calmly dropped a cube of sugar into her cup of tea. "So let me make sure our facts are straight: he finally kissed you last night?"

"Yes," Moly whispered.

"Then he apologized for it? For kissing you?"

"Yes."

Olivia scowled for a moment, muttering "Idiot!" under her breath, then thought carefully. "Though perhaps his apology wasn't entirely about what you think. I don't know Sherlock Holmes, but I do feel obligated, as a fellow human, to give him the benefit of the doubt. Granted, I wasn't there and you've not told me a great deal about your history with him, so maybe you should start from the beginning and get to where we are now. Then we can set on a proper strategy."

"Right now I just want to get through today," Molly whispered. "The auction is tonight. My portrait and those sketches will very likely be sold to a disgusting pornographer and if my mother finds out… "

Olivia sighed sadly. "Yes, I know, Molly. I'm sorry about that. If I had had the power I would have taken them out of the lot, but Rosamund was adamant, and she does have an excellent eye, I'll give her that. Excellent character, not by a long shot. But you will weather this storm."

"I can't see how," Molly muttered.

"Of course you can, silly. You can't move forward without facing the past, now can you? Granted, you have more of a Disney rather than _Playboy_ past, but it apparently troubles you a good deal. I've seen the painting and the sketches, remember, and they're nothing to be ashamed of. You need to make sure the world knows you're not ashamed of them, either."

"But… "

"But? Come on, Molly. Even if Trevor Grant does buy them, the world or at least your family and friends must know that _you_ did nothing wrong. If he attempts to make those portraits anything other than what they _are_ , then it will reflect badly on him, not you. Granted, he's in porn, so it's not like he really cares about having a reputation for honor and decency. But it's very simple from your side of the argument. Now. So far as how to deal with Sherlock 'I Don't Need Nobody But My Murder Victims' Holmes, that will require a little more effort. Let's order some more coffee and cake and do some conspirin'."

* * *

John watched Sherlock limp into the flat and drag himself into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and had to _wonder_. He had been acting stranger than usual that morning, mumbling to himself as he sipped his coffee and staring into space before suddenly jumping up and leaving, muttering something about needing to do some shopping. Lestrade had called John's house earlier that morning and went through a brilliantly comedic play-by-play of the ball at Granville House, with commentary on Sherlock's behavior and poor waiting skills, along with a reverent description of about how smashing Molly had looked and less-than-reverent snickering about how Holmes had kept watching her. "Maybe he's finally catching on, the daft git," Lestrade had said. "Were I not already chasing Olivia, I'd have made a play for Molly myself."

Watson snorted—Sherlock would never permit that.

Sherlock came limping back out of his room and went into the bathroom. The shower turned on and Sherlock made a yelping sound, so apparently the wound on his leg was rather painful. Possibly even open, but he would heal up pretty well. John wondered how he had gotten it, and idly scanned the headlines until Sherlock emerged from the bath, wearing a towel around his waist and an aggrieved expression. "There's no shampoo." he announced.

"You were supposed to buy it. I don't live here anymore, you know." He turned the page to an article about the Livingstone-Hayes auction tonight. "And even if I did live here I still wouldn't buy your sodding hair products."

"What do I wash my hair with?"

"Dishwasher soap can do quite well in a pinch, I've heard."

Sherlock limped into the kitchen and, after a few moments' fruitless searching, limped back into the living room. "None!"

"Don't use bar soap. It'll never wash out and will leave a nasty film on your hair, or so Mary tells me."

"Blast it all… " Sherlock limped back into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. John snickered.

"I've no razors!" Sherlock yelled after several moments.

"It's called a grocery store, Sherlock. They have all kinds of fascinating things. Food, toiletries… _condoms_ … "

"Shut up and go get me some bloody shampoo!"

John sighed. He got out his phone and called Mary. "Hello, sweetheart, could you swing by the market and pick up some razors and shampoo for Sherlock? He's having a bad hair day and seems to have been injured somewhat. Aye, yes. I think he may have been kicked in the shin. If he were a horse we'd have to shoot him."

"I heard that!"

* * *

"… and tonight, the entire collection of renowned artist Sir David Livingstone-Hayes sold at Granville House, the family seat of the Marquess of Canton, with the total coming to well over seven million pounds. Many of the items sold at much higher prices than estimated. One of the highest-priced items was a nude called _The Girl in the Mirror_ , which was purchased by adult entertainment magnate Trevor Grant for two-hundred-eighty-five thousand pounds. The portrait is regarded as a masterpiece by many critics and all expressed no small amount of dismay at it being sold to such… "

Molly turned the television off and covered her face with her hands. At least the newscast had not shown the picture on the air. That would have been horrifying enough. She wondered, in fact, why it wasn't shown. Most programs had no qualms about showing nudes on the evening news. They didn't even have qualms about showing Ed Miliband on the air after all, and he was _horrifying_.

She sighed and curled up in her dad's old chair, arms wrapped around her knees and resisted the urge to rock back and forth like a patient in a madhouse. Olivia was curled up on Molly's couch, Toby asleep at his spot by the fireplace. Both women were eating ice cream and saying very little as they watched the broadcast.

"I can't imagine why you feel embarrassed, Molly," Olivia said gently. "That painting is lovely, and so are those sketches."

"Have you ever posed nude and had said portrait purchased by a purveyor of smut?" Molly asked miserably.

"Well, no, but I was in a Georgia Satellite video, many years ago, and… er… well, I still kept my clothes on and they kept their hands to themselves." She smiled at her own joke, but Molly didn't find it amusing. "Come on, Molly. Lighten up. If anyone finds out who is in those pictures, the worse they can say is that Sir David didn't use the best lighting in that third sketch… the one that sold for nine thousand pounds."

"I was naked, Olivia. _Naked_."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Molly!" Olivia sat up. "So what if Trevor Grant bought them all? The whole world knows he's a no better than a bucket of warm spit and if he displays those pictures anywhere in any setting they'll _know_ they weren't done for him but were painted by a respected and highly-regarded honest-to-God _artist_. Your name isn't anywhere on the painting or the sketches, and he doesn't know you from Eve and likely never will. Even if he does find out who you are, it would be considered… libel, I guess, if he made it public, since the pictures aren't remotely pornographic." She sat back on the couch and stirred her nearly-melted ice cream. "Maybe not libel. Defamation of character or something. Something legalish. I was a model before I went into fashion design and watercolors and being a PA. I couldn't have been a paralegal, that's for sure."

Olivia's mobile buzzed and she looked at it, adding up numbers quickly. "Well, I will be sheep-dipped… he shelled out three-hundred-forty-six thousand two-hundred fifty pounds for all of them!" she said, showing the display of numbers to Molly.

 **1** **st** **sketch:** £ **7000**

 **2** **nd** **sketch:** £ **5400**

 **3** **rd** **sketch:** £ **9000**

 **4** **th** **sketch:** £ **5800**

 **5** **th** **sketch:** £ **6100**

 **6** **th** **sketch:** £ **5950**

 **7** **th** **sketch:** £ **8000**

 **8** **th** **sketch:** £ **7200**

 **9** **th** **sketch:** £ **6800**

 **Portrait-** _ **The Girl in the Mirror**_ **:** £ **285,000**

 **Poppy**

"Poppy?" Molly asked.

"Sir David's older daughter. She married a German Count. She's pretty sensible, though we don't always see eye to eye. It's her sister whose evil can curdle dairy. She and your sister hit it off, according to Poppy," Olivia said, reading texts. "Oh… dear… your sister and her husband were at the auction, too."

"What?!" Molly asked, horrified. "Emma was there?!"

"I'm sorry, Molly, but Rosamund told your sister that it was you in those pictures. I suppose Emma put two and two together before that. She must have recalled you went to university where Sir David taught, then wondered why you would be at the ball last night, and asked Rosamund about it… " She sighed heavily. "Sometimes I think Rosamund is possessed and part Yankee. She likes putting people in their place. Like I said… common as hog tracks."

"Oh, God… my mother… "

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Olivia looked sympathetic. "I'd almost recommend Jack Daniels now, but I don't drink, even at times like this."

Molly dropped her head into her lap and covered her face with her hands. Just then, Molly's own mobile began ringing. Molly looked at the caller ID and wished she were dead. She picked up after three rings and braced herself. "Hello, Mum."

"I'm sure you have some cooking sherry," Olivia said, getting up. "That'll do in a pinch."

* * *

Sherlock sat in his brother's office, listening to Mycroft talk to someone on the phone, and said nothing when he rang off. "I can't imagine why you're here, little brother."

"Nowhere else to go and walking hurts."

"What happened to you?"

"Kicked."

"Where?"

"Grocery store."

"Excellent place for kicking, I must say. But _why_?"

"None of your bloody business."

Mycroft frowned at his brother. "What did you do to warrant being kicked in the grocery store?"

"Um… just… " As if he was going to admit to Mycroft that he had been a bloody _twit_ and yet again said the wrong thing to Molly. She had, so far, slapped him four times and kicked him once. Next time she might come at him with a meat cleaver, and he'd deserve that, too. "Thingy."

"Ah, _thingy_. Did something dumb and paid for it with a bruised shin?"

Sherlock refused to answer.

Mycroft rose and pulled on his coat. "I must go, Sherlock, I've an appointment. See yourself out, please, and might I say your hair smells rather strange. Strawberries?"

Sherlock growled. Mary had been in a puckish mood. "The government could have afforded three-hundred-forty-six thousand two-hundred- fifty pounds."

"True, but it still served us no purpose. And really, how many times do I have to tell you that caring makes one weak?"

Sherlock looked at the windows, blinking a little at the bright sunshine pouring in. "I don't _care_ ," Sherlock finally said.

"Quite true." Mycroft shook his head. "Cold logic is what is required for survival of our species. Sentiment clouds our reasoning and makes us weak. Good day." Mycroft left, closing the door behind him. Sherlock got up and made his painful way out, passing Anthea at her desk. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes."

"Like bloody hell it is," Sherlock snapped as he limped away.

* * *

 **Three days later**

Molly eyed Mr Stern's vast belly and sighed. These sorts of autopsies were always the worst, because it required three people to help her move the fat aside so she could get to the internal organs. So with Crane, Dorsey and Mills gasping as they held everything out of the way, she finally managed to get to his heart (huge, overtaxed, clogged), liver (damaged, gray and shriveled), kidneys (shot to hell), stomach (full of crisps, cod, beer and what looked like about a million Smarties). His lungs were clean, she noted as she dictated the condition of each organ and noted the man's weight and height. Each organ was placed in a basin and after a few more moments of tense poking around, she was finished. Her assistants heaved the fat back into place and Molly began sewing him up, having to climb up onto a stool to do so.

"Everybody out."

Molly knew that voice. She was still sewing and couldn't move out of her position or it would be hell catching everything again. But she didn't even pause, even as her three colleagues fled in obvious terror.

"I've nothing to say to you besides 'sod off, you naff git', and 'I am wearing hard but sensible shoes, so watch it'," Molly said. She continued with her stitching, muttering the whole time.

"Then I'll talk."

"Fine, but I will _delete_ everything you say."

"I was not apologizing for having kissed you," he said, after several moments of careful consideration.

"Sounded like it to me," she answered coldly. " _Delete_."

"I was apologizing for the way I behaved. For embarrassing you at the ball, for one thing, and for behaving like some rutting ram at your flat. But I was _not_ apologizing for kissing you."

Molly finally finished with patching up Mr Stern and covered him with the sheet. She sighed and pulled her gloves off then stepped off the stool and turned to face him. Sherlock's gaze dropped to her feet and moved up slowly, taking in her nice shoes, bare legs, shorter skirt and light, dark top.

She was wearing her hair down, which she had objected to Olivia about, but the Southern belle had pointed out that most men liked a girl's hair to be down. "Less having to cope with hairpins and barrettes," she had said before shoving Molly into the cab and sending her on her way.

"I don't believe you. Even for one moment. I have no objection to you coming here to ask for specimens and the like, and I will always be happy to help you if you're in some sort of crisis and need to throw yourself off a building, but there's no further need for you to flirt or compliment me or even turn on your somewhat less-than-practiced _charm_. You kissed me, you took it back, and there's an end to it. I am not your doormat any more, Sherlock Holmes and I am not above slapping or kicking you again if you continue to behave like a complete wanker."

"I did not take it back!" he snapped, irritated. "I kissed you because I wanted to. I just didn't think that you appreciated the way I did it."

"What way did you think I wanted it?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

That startled him. "I… uh… " He scratched the back of his neck. His mobile buzzed and he cursed. "What? Oh, for God's sake, not now!"

Molly rolled her eyes and went around Mr Stern's corpse to begin entering his data into the file. She heard Sherlock arguing on the phone but carefully tuned him out as she worked.

"You have got to be joking! John, that is… I can't… I don't even know how to change a nappy! I'd put it on her head!"

Molly snickered.

"I suppose I could ask Molly."

She whirled around. "What?!"

Sherlock covered the mouthpiece on his phone. "John wants me to babysit his little… erotic arts and crafts project."

"Juliet."

"Yes, that one. But I can't do that! I don't know a damned thing about babies!"

"Considering you are practically still a baby, I'd think you were an expert."

"You're hilarious."

"Thank you, I've always imagined hosting a chat show." She turned back around and resumed her work. Sherlock slowly sidled up beside her, and she caught a whiff of strawberries. She looked quizzically at him and he rolled his eyes and he continued arguing and pleading with John, but apparently to no avail. He grumbled an "All right, dammit!" and rang off. "Listen, I apparently will be trapped at John's house until they return from their trip up to God knows where to visit his sister. When they return you and I will hash this out."

"How romantic. 'Hash it out' always does get a girl in the mood. Next you'll tell me I need to fish or cut bait."

"Duke it out?"

She fluttered her hands at her chest and pretended to swoon. "Oh, Danielle Steele, eat your heart out!"

"Discuss it rationally?"

"Go, Sherlock."

"Molly… " There was a singularly desperate plea in his voice and Molly was amazed at how right Olivia was. For a woman who refused to put out to any man without a ring on her finger, she knew how to motivate them. She deserved credit where credit was due—no wonder Greg was so crazy about her!

"I mean it. I have work to do and I am in no mood for your manipulations."

He exhaled slowly. "I deserved to be kicked. I'll grant you that. I said all the wrong things."

She continued typing. _Arteries hardened, clogged with cholesterol. Obviously suffered from extremely high blood pressure. Total heart failure is COD._

"I will probably continue to say the wrong things."

Molly narrowed her eyes, searching for the right words. She wanted the autopsy to be clear and concise but not so scientific as to upset his family. He had essentially died of himself. A proper diet and exercise would have given him another twenty years. "Oh, I know _that_. You are dead brilliant at saying the wrong things."

He paused, considering. Finally, he cleared his throat. "You look very… nice."

"Don't. Even. Try. It," Molly said firmly.

"But you do look nice. You should forgo jumpers from henceforth. Miniskirts do have their… uh… merits. So yes, you do look nice."

"I know I do. I've received a fair amount of compliments since I changed my wardrobe around. You may go now."

"But you will talk to me after I finish my adventures in mini-demonsitting?" He paused. "Fair amount of… "

"Juliet is a beautiful, healthy, happy baby, not a demon!" Molly snapped. "And if my schedule is not too crammed up I'll consider it, but I do have a very busy schedule and even if I were to forgive you—which is a longshot—I still have my own life."

"She screams when I look at her," he said, pouting.

"Maybe because she thinks _you're_ a demon, and I will give you no answer until I've thought about it. Now go!"

She refused to look at him, but she knew her barb had hit home. Sherlock trailed out, still limping a little, and she leaned against the counter, exhaling in relief. She had gotten through that initial confrontation with her dignity intact. Olivia had warned her not to be too hard on him, but to give him a taste of his own medicine with just a drop or two of honey. "Dress for the show, give him a tiny dash of hope, then leave him wanting more. By no means let him think it will be _easy_ ," Olivia had said. "If he really wants you, he's going to have to fight for you."

* * *

 **Two days later**

Trevor Grant's office was, to say the least, the epitome of vulgarity.

Sculptures of nude torsos were everywhere, and all were of well-endowed women. On the walls were paintings and drawings of women in varying poses that were best described as 'lewd'. His desk chair was made of horns of varying types of animals and thick, soft leather, and his custom-made pens were made of elephant ivory and ibex horns. His ten newest acquisitions were given pride of place, lined up on easels along one wall, and he looked at them occasionally, smiling broadly. He had made sure to hint, while being interviewed by the press after the auction, that he was open to the idea of selling them for a good profit if he got an offer he liked.

His secretary buzzed him. "Mr Grant, there's two people here to see you about the reflection painting."

" _The Girl in the Mirror_ , Kelli," he said patiently. "Send them right in."

"Okay. I'm going to lunch."

"It's ten o'clock, Kelli."

"I'm still going."

"Not 'til after they leave!"

The doors opened and a tall, aristocratic-looking man and a really hot, nicely dressed woman came in. The woman was dressed in a lilac outfit, complete with hat, scarf, high heels and tons of attitude, and Grant wondered why she looked so familiar. The man looked like he had just stepped out of Parliament. All he needed was a bowler hat and a red carnation in his button hole. "Good afternoon, Mr Grant," the man said. "Philippe LeGrange."

"Funny, you don't look French… "

"This is my associate, Miss Pamela Cruickshank."

"Miss… er… "

"We are interested in purchasing these sketches and the portrait," she said, nodding toward the displays. "Philippe and I head a group of investors in the adult entertainment industry. Perhaps you have heard of SoftFocus?"

Grant had never heard of it. But he saw the cool looks on their faces, indicating they expected him to know, and decided to bluff. "Yes, of course."

"We have several very interested investors who would be quite happy to meet any price you might give," Philippe said.

Pamela gave Philippe a sharp look. "You do not show your hand so quickly, Philippe!" she said angrily. "How many times must I tell you?!"

"Oh, shut up, Pamela! I am the one who knows the industry!"

"I was _in_ the industry, Philippe! I can't imagine anyone putting you in a centerfold in _Br_ _ü_ _ste_! Perhaps _Field & Stream_ if you lost that extra _stone_ you're still carrying around from last Christmas!"

" _Br_ _ü_ _ste_?" Grant asked, startled. "I… wow, _Br_ _ü_ _ste_ magazine?"

"Of course," she said, settling beautiful, almost violet eyes on him. So that's why she wears purple, Grant thought.

"Oh… oh yeah, I remember you! Right. Right… really nice… er… what year?"

"Two thousand."

"Oh. Exactly. Gorgeous. If you don't mind my saying."

"Why would I mind?" Pamela gave him a pretty smile and looked at Philippe. "Anyway, we have many very, very keen investors. The sketches alone could be copied and mass produced for offices 'round the world, and the portrait… well, a certain high-level executive is very keen on it. Granted, the girl in the portrait is not generally the kind of woman he goes for. He's more the 'big-boobed trailer-park bimbo' type, but he has to be careful now his wife is currently running for… "

"Shut up, Pamela!" Philippe hissed. "You silly woman!"

"Not that she has much chance, what with being a chronic pathological liar and a complete failure at everything she's ever tried and don't you talk to me that way, you limp-wristed drone!" Pamela snarled. Trevor Grant watched their exchange in rapt fascination.

Philippe looked absolutely livid, his face almost the same shade as her dress. "I hate you, Pamela! I always have and I _always_ will!"

"Shut up," she snapped before turning her attention back to Grant, smiling sweetly. "As I was saying, we have many investors willing to pay you a very good sum of money for these sketches and the portrait. Granted, none of them are of particular value in the _industry_ , but we have already received calls from numerous people with companies as diverse as Dow, Crayola, the Annenberg School of Art in Chicago, David's Bridal, Wendy's and even the King of Norway. They are all very eager to consider any sum you might suggest."

Philippe looked at Pamela for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"Yes, indeed. The King is particularly keen on the sketches themselves. He has a small… collection of his own."

"Right, right," Grant nodded. "Well, I'd want to make a profit, you know. None of those sketches came cheap and that portrait was pretty expensive. One of the highest-priced items in the whole auction. I had to give up bidding on _Holes in the Soul_. Would've looked great in my inner courtyard."

"Yes, a wonderful piece," Philippe said, tugging briefly at his collar, still clearly furious with Pamela. "So… "

"Lyrical," Pamela said. "And appropriate for your inner courtyard. We _might_ be able to persuade its new owner to sell it to us to use as a bargaining chip."

Grant looked interested then. "So… er… I'd want double what I paid."

"Double, you say?" Philippe said, looking less than pleased.

"Yes. Double. I'm a business man. I have to look at the bottom line." He sat back in his atrocious chair and smiled. Pamela glared at him. Philippe mumbled something under his breath.

"The original total price plus one quarter," she finally said. Philippe looked at her, eyes bugging slightly.

"Pamela… "

"Half the price," Grant countered.

"Sir, you realize that the portrait alone will be in the private office of a man who was once one of the most powerful men ever to live?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "Were it not for the political party to which he belongs and the protection he receives from some quarters, he would currently be in _prison_! The prestige alone should be enough for you, and I know you've contributed to his foundation. I also know for a fact you've sold pornographic materials to Kim Jong-un and the current Ayatollah of Iran, and to others of that sort." She crossed her long, lovely legs and gazed at Grant, who drummed his fingers on his desk. "One quarter."

He pondered. She didn't even flinch. Philippe looked agitated, and Grant saw money pouring in when the investors saw his other, far more racy pieces. "All right, you have a deal."

"Lovely. I'm sure SoftFocus and the other investors will be in touch with you very soon. We are always eager to form new business partnerships and this one will, I'm certain, be very lucrative to you, Mr Grant," Philippe said, shaking his hand. He stood and helped Pamela to her feet. They exchanged a look of mutual loathing and Philippe extracted a contract and a chequebook from his coat pocket. He spread the contract on the table and let Grant read over it as he prepared the cheque. Pamela smoothed her skirt and began to stroll around the room, looking at the nudes. Philippe waited for Grant to finally sign his name on the contract, and when that was done he wrote out the cheque and handed it over. "We'll take the painting and the drawings."

"Yes. Sure. Go ahead. Want 'em wrapped?"

Pamela gave Grant a narrow, icy look. "We aren't putting them under the Christmas tree, Mr Grant. The gentleman wanting the portrait can't very well unwrap it in front of his wife, now can he? Get them, Philippe. Mind the canvas and see none of the sketches are damaged."

Philippe, looking disgruntled, began carefully stacking the sketches, and after that was accomplished he handed them to Pamela, who waited for him to take the portrait. They nodded to Grant and calmly marched out of the room. Grant grinned and stuffed the cheque into his pocket, pleased. When he looked up, the couple was gone. He shrugged and sat down and hit the call button. "Kelli, come in here! Bring some champagne. We've got some celebrating to do!"

"But I wanna go to lunch!" she whined.

"Forget lunch! We're goin' to Paris!"

* * *

Olivia Cowan looked up from a ledger of figures and rubbed her eyes, then squeaked in alarm when she saw Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway, expression guarded. She regained her composure quickly and nodded. "Mr Holmes. So nice to see you not running down the stairs at top speed."

He frowned. "Miss Cowan. I have been trying to reach Dr Hooper these past few days and she has not responded."

"She's gone home to visit her mother, I think."

"Ah. So her mother has heard about the portrait and the sketches."

"Yes. I'm afraid so." Olivia put her pen away and rubbed her eyes. "She was… upset."

"And Molly's vicious cow of a sister told their mother all, I'm guessing."

"Sounds like it."

"Have you see the news this morning?"

"No. I don't watch the news."

"I suppose not. You do have a direct _line_ to information ninety-nine percent of the people in the world cannot access, though."

"I'm sorry?"

"Your past is rather interesting, Miss Cowan. Your brothers are all Marines, correct? You, meanwhile, took a slightly different path and continue to enjoy certain… access and _connections_."

"My own past has nothing to do with Molly's mother."

"No, but you do have contacts. _Resources_."

"The path I took, Mr Holmes, remains perfectly respectable."

"Perhaps. Being a model got you into places your… _employer_ would not have access to in general. In spite of numerous films indicating the contrary, no one thinks twice of a woman who looks like you doing what you've done."

"Granted. And I can kill you with my pinky, so watch it."

He grinned, pleased, and she smiled back. "Well, I really doubt that it will ever come to that, Miss Cowan. By all accounts, you are beyond reproach. Though there was that incident in Rome… "

"I took care of a difficult situation in the only way I could. I'll admit that stiletto heels aren't considered weapons but mine are always steel-reinforced and come equipped with a hidden blade, and that man was trying to… "

"Kill you."

She nodded. "My handler commented it was a good thing none of my brothers were present at the time or that man's injuries would have been immediately rather than eventually fatal."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"As if no one has tried to kill you, Mr Holmes. I merely had an advantage. I was taught hand-to-hand fighting skills, plus how to use anything not nailed down as a weapon. My father was in that particular organization, too, and he taught me everything he knows. He taught my brothers, too. The United States Marine Corps are fortunate to have them."

"Your father is something of a legend," he said, sitting down. "Though I suppose the United States government might disavow his very existence."

She made no comment. In fact, her expression was unreadable.

Sherlock sat down. "So Molly's new friend is… "

"Don't say it, sir. Rude much? I do my job for my country and maintain a very respectable position here. I liked working for Sir David, by the way and the pay is better. He was about as much a security risk to the government as a piece of cheese, and really, that was rather nice. His wife is lovely, too, and so I'm staying on to handle her finances and personal issues as needed, and I keep her daughters from driving her crazy. My own position with that organization remains as it was and I do receive a call from them from time to time. All in all, it gives me resources that I am not in the least bit ashamed to use when required, and in most cases they are only too pleased to assist me."

"I have resources too and shamelessly exploit them as well."

"Yes, I know. Your brother being the British government."

He shifted in his seat, and Olivia smiled.

"A few phone calls?" He finally asked.

"Just two. I'm familiar with some very high-up people, and cultivating friendships is often as helpful as out-and-out blackmail."

Sherlock looked up at the frescoed ceiling. Olivia sat back and crossed her knees, which Sherlock seemed immune to. "So… "

"I called in a favor," Olivia shrugged.

"Really." He leveled his gaze at her, but Olivia only looked amused.

"She didn't seem terribly surprised, oddly enough. When I spoke to her, she indicated she was more than willing to assist in any way she could, and she recruited others also willing to assist in settling the manner. Some of her recruits were really very surprising."

He frowned and she laughed.

"Are you even really _from_ the South?"

"I'm insulted you would even ask such a thing. I am a true daughter of the South, and my loyalty is unyielding. Besides, whenever Yankees attempt to talk like us, they get it wrong. We never say 'ya'll' when speaking to one person and I've never met a girl named Scarlett who wasn't born north of the Mason-Dixon line."

"I suppose a Southerner would not appreciate being called a 'Yankee' any more than a Scotsman would take to being called English. British, perhaps, but never _English_."

"American, yes. Yankee… never. So what do you deduce about me, Mr Holmes?"

He looked at her carefully then nodded. "The silver bracelet is an heirloom. In fact, it's not even silver. It's made from bullets melted down just after the Civil War. The bullets killed someone… perhaps a Union officer set on killing a female ancestor?"

"My great-great-great-great-grandmother, Martha Stanton Hodges of Natchez, Mississippi. She killed a Yankee who broke in her house with clear intent to kill her and her children." She touched the bracelet. "It's a talisman," she nodded. "I never take it off. I am bound by tradition as much as I am by my love of my country and my loyalty to my friends and family. Folks from the South are much like the Chinese, in that we eat rice and worship our ancestors, and I will not let them down."

He paused. "You speak several languages."

"I do. French, Spanish, German, Italian, Russian, Arabic and Mandarin. I'm slogging my way through Japanese now."

"And this morning Garth Lestrade asked you to marry him and you're torn on the notion, as you are fearful he might find out about your past exploits. Just the same, you do love him. Can't imagine why." He picked an imaginary speck off the cuff of his Belfstaff.

She blushed a little and looked down at the ring on her finger. She kept the gemstones turned inside, so the ring would go unnoticed. "His name is _Greg_. And I wasn't expecting it. We've only known each other about two weeks now. And yes, I do love him. He's lovely."

"Still not sleeping with him."

"Nope."

"No wonder he's been in such a haze lately."

"I simply do not believe in premarital sex. It was a decision I made long ago and my conscience cannot yield—part of it is from my religious scruples, and part comes from an admittedly old-fashioned romantic ideal which nonetheless helps me avoid heartbreak, unplanned pregnancies and disfiguring and romance-killing diseases. Now… let me deduce _you_."

He frowned. She smiled. "Well, firstly, you smell like strawberries, so I'm assuming you ran out of shampoo and were left at the mercy of a person with a wicked sense of humor. Your eyes a little are bloodshot, so you've not been sleeping. You have checked your cell phone three times since you sat down, so you are awaiting news of some importance. I assume you're wanting to know how Molly is doing."

"I… am, yes." She's _good_ , he admitted.

"She's all right. She will be returning to London Friday evening."

"Ah."

"She told me about a certain incident that occurred at her local grocery. It ended with you on the floor, clutching a badly bruised shin and her stalking out in a rage."

His cheeks pinked a little. "I said the wrong thing. And though she be but little, she is _fierce_."

"Amen to that," Olivia said. "Don't tell me you attempted a wallbanger!"

"Certainly not!"

"See, this is why men and women have always had such difficulty communicating. A woman doesn't want to be _apologized_ to after having been kissed. Good Lord, I'd almost think you'd been pithed, Mr Holmes."

He scowled at her, but that didn't seem to faze her a bit. Olivia sat back in her seat.

"It is generally the man who makes the first move in a courtship, but since you are clearly utterly _clueless_ , I'll fill you in. Molly is deeply attracted to you and if you would allow her, she would love you very faithfully for the remainder of her life. But if you continue to play these games with her—flirting and not meaning it, complimenting her to get the things you want, and so on—that love could fade away into complete bitterness or even the worst of all potential results: _indifference_."

He shifted in his seat, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Untenable, I know, because losing her would be too much for you to handle, as she is worth any degree of trouble you might have to go through to regain her trust and win her heart entirely," she said. "I wasn't just trained in hand-to-hand combat. I was also trained in reading people. I endured the old 'how many hats in the room' game, among others, and how to read body language—my father drove my brothers and I crazy with that stuff, but it is helpful. Be glad I'm not the enemy." Olivia's phone rang and she answered quickly. At the same time, Sherlock's mobile buzzed.

 **Come to my office at earliest convenience. As in now. – MH**

He checked again and his hopes were dashed. The message was from Mycroft, not Molly.

"Called to the headmaster's office?" Olivia asked, glancing up at him as he stood. She was writing something and he read it upside down. _86,562+_ _£346,250_. He stood and Olivia glanced up at him. She politely thanked her caller and hung up. "I assume you're good at reading upside down," she said. She folded the note and put in a drawer to her right.

"Fairly."

"Well. If you can manage things with Molly come Friday and not completely muck it up, I assume we will have to endure each other's presence on occasion. Molly is not terribly social herself, though she does enjoy pub quizzes, which give me headaches. I'm sure you and she would clean up."

"I don't do trivia."

"Yes, I seem to recall reading something about you not knowing the sun is the center of the universe."

"Unimportant data. _Trivia_."

She snickered. "Perhaps. Can you at least find Iraq on a map?"

"I can."

"Well, then, I suppose you'll pass muster with Molly's friends. Her mother might be of a different opinion, but I'm sure you can turn on the charm."

"Her mother is a rather nice woman," he admitted. "I'm not sure she'll be too keen on me… "

"That's the risk you have to take. And yes, she is very sweet, just like her younger daughter. The elder… eh… " Olivia waved her hand negligently. "I considered calling in another favor but that would just upset Molly and poor Mrs Hooper, who has already lost a much-loved husband. You might also have to endure Christmases with Molly's family, too." She closed her ledger book. "Now, Mr Holmes, I have business to attend to. Lady Iris wants to go shopping for a new hat. If you'll excuse me?"

He bowed respectfully, knowing he had met his match. Olivia left and he checked his mobile again.

 **Why does Juliet have a rash on her bum? You did change her nappy didn't you? –JW**

 **Of course I did. In between the screaming and the weeping, I required a bottle of Scotch. Hope you didn't mind me breaking into the liquor cabinet. – SH**

 **Bill to replace broken glass will arrive shortly. Who was screaming and weeping? – JW**

 **Take a wild guess – SH**


	5. Somewhat Compromising 5

**_Take Me_ ** (written by Leon Payne and George Jones) **is used here because the lyrics are beautiful and is really one of my favorite songs of all time. Dwight Yoakam and Kelly Willis really did a beautiful version of it, too, and I recommend it highly. I also recommend _The Book of Love_ ** (Peter Gabriel and featured in _Shall We Dance?_ ) **, _Dixie Fried_** (Kentucky Headhunters) ** _, Sweet Home Alabama_** (Lynyrd Skynyrd) ** _, The South's Gonna Do It Again_** (Charlie Daniels Band) **and _Shut Up and Kiss Me_ ** (Mary Chapin Carpenter).

* * *

"Oh my God, you said yes!"

"Yes. I did. I… did fill him in on a few details and do you know what he said? He said he's a detective, so he already knew a good bit anyway and didn't care. So long as I don't try to kill him, he's fine with it."

"I'm so happy for you, Olivia and… wait, what do you mean 'knew a good bit' and… wait, 'try to kill'…?"

"Never mind," Olivia laughed. "We're getting married next Saturday. My parents are flying in and two of my brothers might be able to make it, but the other two are stuck somewhere getting their asses shot at for crappy pay. I've got to pick out colors and whip together a wedding cake and carve out a guest list… "

"That takes more than a week, Olivia," Molly said, sitting down across from her friend and signaling a waitress to bring them a menu.

"Are you kidding? My mother threw together an elaborate and romantic wedding in less than an hour. My uncle is a JP and this girl and her fiancé showed up one evening wanting to get married right then and there. Well, Mama wasn't about to see a girl get married without all the proper trappings so she got a wedding dress from a much-wed cousin, altered it just right, got all the girl children to put on white dresses, and when the bride was comin' down the stairs, we all used crystal bells to play Mendelssohn's _Wedding March_. She didn't have roses—it was December—so we substituted glittery snowflakes for my cousin Madeleine to spread down the steps. The only thing she didn't have time to whip up was a cake, but the bride was so happy I think she was walking on air. We ate Swedish ginger cookies covered with cake icing instead."

"That does sound nice," Molly grinned. "She sounds enterprising."

"Comes from a long line of enterprisin' women, though I won't go too much into Great Aunt Claudia wearing her portiers to a debutante ball. She was just crazy. I've got a week, so I will follow Mama's example and put a something little more elaborate together. Not Will and Kate, obviously. Just Greg and Olivia. He's nervous about meeting my father and _really_ jittery about meeting my mother."

"She sounds a little formidable, even for Greg," Molly laughed. "Wait… portiers? What are portiers?"

"Curtains," Olivia said dryly, shaking her head. She perused her menu and finally selected steak, potatoes and carrots.

"So she was… really… um… "

"Crazy as a bedbug? Oh yeah. I reminded Greg that crazy is very acceptable in the South. We love our crazy people… shoot, we bring 'em downstairs and show 'em off. He'll do fine."

"I know he will—he's made of pretty stern stuff. Aren't people from up north just as crazy?"

"Of course they are, and more so as they live up _north_. But they go to psychiatrists instead of walking invisible dogs or believing fairies are living in their spider plants. Nobody in my family has ever been to a psychiatrist, unless you count the ones that were institutionalized. Listen, I really want to ask you, Molly… could you see yourself being my maid of honor?"

Molly gasped, delighted. "Really?"

"Of course. You're the reason I _met_ Greg. And I promise I won't make you wear something that makes you look like you've been tented for termites, either. No puffy sleeves, no taffeta—I hate taffeta, it's so _hot_ —and no ugly colors. What's your best color?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't know. Sherlo—I've been told it's black, but… "

"My granny would roll over in her grave if I had a bridesmaid in black," Olivia said, studying Molly. "Well, you're a spring, I think, complexion-wise, so soft pink would be nice, or maybe pastel blue."

"It's your wedding."

"Yes, but I don't believe in making people miserable just so I can look good." Olivia shook her head. "An ungracious bride is generally just called a… "

"Bridezilla?"

"No, Molly, a heartless bitch. We can handle crazy kinfolks, but snotty behavior just will not fly. Aunt Claudia was nuts, but she was also nice to people, no matter who they were or if even if they weren't real. Now. Enough about genteel mental illness. Greg and I agreed that we wouldn't go wild on spending, and I'm thinking of using this place for the reception—the husband is from Texas, so he knows good cooking when he eats it." She smiled. "Oh, by the way, I met Greg's children, of course, and they're pretty excited about the wedding and they're so sweet. His little boys are charming little devils and his daughter… "

"Catherine. So adorable!" Molly laughed. "Can't do her 'r's yet, but who cares?"

"Yes—she's so excited about the wedding she won't sit still. She'll be the flower girl. I adore them, and I hope they like me, too. They seem to, anyway. Greg and his ex-wife share custody, but apparently she's willing to let them spent all of next week with Greg and be in the wedding, and when we get back from the honeymoon they'll stay with us about a week and then they'll spend Christmas break with us, too. I want to get to know them, but I don't want to push myself onto them. Let them adjust in increments instead of all at once."

"That's pretty nice of her, considering she's… "

"I won't say it again," Olivia smiled. She suddenly grinned and Molly turned to see Greg coming into the restaurant, trailed by John Watson. Olivia got up and kissed Greg warmly, which made Molly's eyes mist over. She wanted to ask about Sherlock, and John seemed to sense her anxiety because he gave her a 'he's alive' look and smiled.

"I asked John to stand up with me," Greg said, sitting down beside Olivia, who smiled and was pleased to meet Watson. John sat beside Molly. She felt her mobile buzzing and looked at it under the table.

 **I can assume this luncheon will be a long one. –SH**

 **Probably. –MH**

 **People all about. Come talk to me. – SH**

 **Sod off. Stop being so selfish. It may be your area, but it's not anyone else's and we grow weary of your** _ **area**_ **. –MH**

There was a long pause before he replied, and she wondered if her barb had hit home. Finally her phone buzzed again.

 **What can you contribute? Tell them you look good in lilac and be done with it. –SH**

 **I don't know that I look good in lilac and it's her wedding, not mine. –MH**

 **I'm sure Olivia will not tolerate a bridesmaid in black. It's a wedding, not a funeral. –SH**

 **You said weddings represent everything specious and false. –MH**

 **Not all weddings are such and your memory is far too good. –SH**

 **Quite an admission from you, and I can almost FEEL you pouting. – MH**

 **TALK TO ME, DAMN IT! – SH**

 **If you're going to shout at me I will not speak to you at all. -MH**

She switched her mobile off and looked up, and gulped when she realized everyone was staring at her.

"Been getting a lot of texts from Sherlock, eh?" John asked. At Molly's startled expression, he only shrugged and gave her a little wink. "This place serves American fare?" He was looking at the menu with interest. "What exactly is pulled pork? Wouldn't the pig do a great deal of screaming anyway?"

"Believe me, John, you don't want to know how pulled pork is made. And yes, I stumbled across this place a year or so ago," Olivia said. "Not just American, but _Southern_. They do it all right, though I must say the wife is from North Carolina and will put coleslaw in the barbecue, which is a sin worthy of death where I come from." She squeezed Greg's hand and he grinned at her. "But the chef—her husband—is from Texas. He can make a good meal out of a bone's smell, and he doesn't call himself a chef. He's a good ol' boy from central Texas."

"It's Olivia who does the grand cooking. First time she made pot roast and potatoes for me, I wept," Greg said. "Had no idea what I had been missing all my life. She put those little baby carrots in it, too, and made gravy with something called… Pioneer Biscuit Gravy Mix. I knew then and there I had found the right woman."

"Indeed you have," Olivia grinned, and kissed her fiancé, who was absolutely beaming.

"Oh, God, makes you want to vomit, doesn't it?" John told Molly with a wink and a smile while Greg and Olivia canoodled. "So what should I order?"

"You've got to try the chicken and dumplings," Greg said. "It's… my God, it's fantastic. Not as good as Olivia's, but close. For a model, she loves to eat and she loves to cook even more."

"Former model. I have high metabolism… yes, I know, I should be shot, but I can't help it. Runs in the family. While the other models were eating rice cakes and bowls of air, I was snarfing down Moon Pies and Tasty Kakes Mama sent in the mail. I'd make fried okra and chicken fried steak, and when in Milan, lasagna and spaghetti with marinara. They hated me. Even more, I've got every episode of _Good Eats_ on DVD. I can tell you all about the quiet but passionate life of the rutabaga and how to deep-fry a turkey… though I still can't make myself tackle a turducken. Just can't do it. Sounds too awful for words. But it's not just cooking that I love. I love to feed people. It's one of life's greatest pleasures to see someone enjoy something you made."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say Garth was marrying Olivia for the food alone. She can't be marrying him for the money—he has none, and Olivia can forget all about attaining any social status through the match."

Everyone froze and Molly turned to look up into Sherlock's blue-green eyes. She huffed and turned away from him, crossing her arms, though she really wanted to leap up and embrace him.

"Allo, Sherlock," Lestrade said, unoffended by the detective forgetting his name _again_. "Injuries all healed up?"

Molly looked at Sherlock then, startled and concerned. "Injuries? You've been in a fight? Moriarty… ?"

Sherlock started to answer, but John interrupted. "Cracked shin. It's finally gone from purplish-black to a really lovely shade of yellow-green now. Skin wasn't broken, at least. Next time, his attacker should aim a little lower. Incapacitate him entirely by breaking his ankle. He solves most of his cases without leaving the flat anyway."

Molly snickered. Sherlock growled and sat down next to her. "I take it your holiday at home has done you well?" he asked.

"It has, actually. I've spent a great deal of time walking in the country, playing board games, watching telly, reading… doing nothing. All very relaxing, and I was very surprised to be told I had so many vacation days that suddenly appeared, out of _nowhere_. Plus I went to visit my cousin's dairy, for his birthday. We had a wonderful time. Cannonballing into the pond, singing 'round the fire, and then my Uncle Wesley got into Aunt Muriel's homemade gooseberry wine and tried to put trousers on all the cows. It was a blast."

Olivia laughed. "Molly, I just _know_ you're kin to my family somehow!"

Sherlock looked annoyed. "If I had been there, the evening would have ended with the sound of a gunshot."

"Why are you here?" Molly snapped, irritated. She folded her arms and refused to look at him, because if she did she would fall apart and kiss him.

"I need to talk to you."

"You need to be the center of attention, as usual," Molly snapped and caught Olivia's 'you go girl!' smirk. Lestrade looked amused and John looked like he might explode with laughter at any moment.

"Molly, I need to talk to you. I'll talk whether there's people around or not, though in general I hate having people around, as they are _irritating_. But since you won't take my calls and only just answered any of my texts, I can assume you're still nursing an irrational and unwarranted _grudge_."

"Grudge! More like righteous anger brought on by your idiotic behavior," Molly said from between clenched teeth, still not looking at him. The waitress came by and Sherlock asked for a menu. He opened it and scanned through it, expression becoming increasingly bewildered.

"What the hell is hash brown casserole?"

"Something absolutely delicious," Greg said reverently. "Potato and cheese, sour cream and some onion… " He sighed. "Next summer Olivia and I are going to Alabama, and I suspect I'll come back weighing fifty pounds more."

"Yes, but once we come back to England you'll lose it all if you'll just stick to the local cuisine. Though I daresay 'British cuisine' is an oxymoron," Olivia pointed out, which made everyone except Sherlock snicker—he was still perusing the menu, intrigued.

"He'll need a minute," John smiled at the waitress who came to ask what Sherlock would like. She shrugged and left. "Sherlock, this might not be the time… "

"So when will it be the time? Just the same, I am not actually here to discuss the reason for you injuring me in a market or your unwillingness to at least listen to me. I'm here to talk to you about something else entirely, though admittedly it is somewhat related."

She glanced out the window and was startled to see one of the Government hearses outside, which meant one thing: Mycroft Holmes. She looked quizzically at Sherlock, who shrugged. "Why is your brother here?"

"He brought me. Now will you talk?"

She sighed. "Fine. Only because the England expects every man and woman do to their duty." She started to get up and was startled when John and Greg stood as well. Sherlock did not immediately but suddenly remembered his manners and gave up on deciphering the menu. He got up and took Molly's hand, helping her up, which startled everyone at the table. Even Olivia looked a little surprised, and nothing ever seemed to shake her. Molly looked up at him and saw him carefully purse his lips, but he didn't release her hand. She stared down at their joined fingers, noting how tiny her hand was in his, and shivering a little at the jolt of electricity that passed between them. For a moment, she and Sherlock stared at each other, and her heart started beating fast. _He still burns me like a brand_ , she thought.

"Wow," John said, voicing everyone's surprise. Sherlock looked at his friend, apparently puzzled but not releasing Molly's hand, but John only shrugged. "I'll explain it later."

"Come on. We've business to go over." He tugged at Molly's hand, but she didn't budge.

"Business?" she asked warily.

"Yep." He gave her another tug, and she finally relented. Sherlock led Molly away from the table and out into the bright sunshine, blinking a little. He looked up and down the little street of the village, taking in ancient cobblestones, thatched-roof cottages and a pretty bridge crossing over a little river where some swans were gliding by. The town square was anything but bustling, and the only sound was of the water flowing under the bridge and the swans getting into a squabble. He flipped up the collar on his Bestaff and seemed to be trying to restrain himself from _something_ , as his hands were clasped behind his back. "I take it they're having their wedding here?"

"In the little church. St. somebody's… St. Anne's, I think."

"Ah. Yes." He gestured toward the black car, and Mycroft got out before assisting Anthea out as well, and Molly overheard them bickering.

"… sodding _King_ _of_ _Norway_?"

"I had to use something really impressive. He didn't even blink at _Wendy's_ ," Anthea answered mildly. "Please, Mycroft, do be calm. You'll need a pill if you don't. Sherlock… Doctor Hooper." She smiled warmly at Molly. "I've always wanted to meet you. The younger of the Holmes boys was bound to be conquered by someone so small, hm? It seems entirely right, I think."

Molly didn't know what to say, but Sherlock's exasperated _huff_ made her almost snicker. She clasped her hands anxiously and glanced at Sherlock, whose cheeks had pinked a little, but he didn't argue with Anthea.

"The King of Norway does not collect pornographic material of any kind," Mycroft said, glowering at her while Sherlock looked away, toward the river and the still-quarreling swans. "Doctor Hooper, I'm sure you have not seen the headlines this morning, what with being out here… "

"There is a news agent in town," Molly pointed out, strangely unafraid of him. She wasn't afraid of Sherlock—why fear his brother? "And they do know how to read here, too. The King of Norway?"

"Never mind. The big news this morning is that Trevor Grant and Pierre DeForet are both currently in custody."

"Who is Pierre DeForet?"

"Sherlock, you want to field that one?" Mycroft said, giving his brother a sharp glare.

"Major drug and sex trafficker in France and actually all over the world. Seems that somehow, the money Trevor Grant received in exchange for the nine sketches and the portrait called _The Girl in the Mirror_ was deposited into the account of Monsieur DeForet."

"But… " Molly stared at Mycroft and Anthea in complete confusion. "Grant sold them to Pierre DeForet?"

"Well, he thought he was selling them to an organization called SoftFocus, but as that organization does not actually exist… " Anthea shrugged. "Then it was a matter of noting several other transactions from Grant to DeForet in the past—we all know that a hacker can do marvelous things when called upon. So arrests were made, Victims No More swooped in and with Scotland Yard and French police assisting, several dozen young girls in France were rescued from the sex slave market. It's all over the news. Jolly good show all 'round, I'd say. The youngest girl was _twelve_." She shuddered slightly. "Anyway, you will be pleased, Doctor Hooper, that your portrait and the nine sketches have all been retrieved and were never shown on television, though we really couldn't prevent them being in catalogs. Just the same, I doubt anyone would really recognize you in them, though you really shouldn't take that as any kind of insult. I think they're all quite lovely, and very respectfully done… and worth every penny spent on them, too."

She stepped aside and Mycroft, grumbling under his breath, extracted a large flat box and a smaller, thick packet from the back of the car.

"Mr Grant's protestations of innocence last evening were amusing to say the least," Sherlock said, standing with his hands behind his back, Belstaff blowing in the breeze. "Crayola, Wendy's… what were the others?"

"Dow, for one," Mycroft grumbled. "I've never felt so ridiculous in my life! What if someone had seen me there?"

"Well, there was that all-boy's school production of _Little Women_. Your reviews were quite flattering, even if that dress wasn't," Sherlock said, expression deadpan.

"I seem to recall you wearing a red cocktail dress as part of a sting operation involving a Las Vegas blackjack dealer, a circus elephant and a Russian contortionist, so don't get too high and mighty with me!" Mycroft sneered at his brother, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose back. Had Anthea not shushed them both, a shoving match might have transpired.

"Wait a minute… " Molly said. "Wait… your brother and… who are you again?" she asked Anthea.

"I'm called Anthea."

"Oh. And the two of you… you both… "

"It's been a long time since I've been in on a con," Anthea said. "Honey trap, really, but the bee was _icky_. But Grant didn't realize his money was going to the account of an internationally loathed drug and sex trafficker, and besides he had already been dealing with DeForet on a more minor but equally revolting scale. Someone was able to hack into Grant's and DeForet's bank accounts, certain people were watching for the transaction to take place and simply did a bit of… switching around, and the rest was front page news this morning… "

Sherlock shrugged. He held up his phone and showed Molly the password: 2BigTitties*. "How unimaginative. DeForet's was a little more complicated, and my French is… "

"Hideous," Mycroft offered.

"…at best." Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and scowled at Mycroft, who scowled back.

"Oh my God… " Molly whispered.

"She's not going to kick you again is she, because if she is, I must beg Doctor Hooper for a moment while I get my camera," Mycroft said eagerly.

"Shut up, Lord Government," Molly snapped, and Mycroft looked stunned as she rounded on Sherlock, who took a step back, which made Anthea snicker. "You hacked into a man's bank account?"

"As I said, easily done," Sherlock nodded, keeping his distance from her feet, which were in boots.

"That's illegal!"

"For God's sake, Molly, don't talk to me about illegal, considering your own dealings with me in the past," Sherlock pointed out unhelpfully while ignoring his brother's rolling eyes. "The only losers in this entire case are Grant and DeForet. Both are in prison now, where they belong, and with the evidence now piling up against them, they will remain there for a long time. Many innocent young women are finally freed from _disgusting_ imprisonment and can return to their families and their lives; a huge cache of illegal drugs are off the streets and your portrait and the sketches are now your personal property to do with as you please. I told you I would take care of the matter, and I did, because _you_ matter. The case was a ten and it is resolved to, I hope, your satisfaction."

He bowed slightly and got into the black car. Mycroft looked Molly up and down and held the door open for Anthea, who climbed in, and Molly heard her laugh and say "I was going to say 'Burger King', but that would have been too _weird_ … "

From inside the hearse, Sherlock said, "Well, you do look good in purple, I must admit."

Mycroft turned back to Molly. "Well, Doctor Hooper, I do hope you realize just how much trouble you've caused the government. All sorts of things had to be cancelled, money had to be transferred, phone calls were made at all hours, a network of agents had to be placed in position, flights had to be arranged; loud emotional arguments were conducted, one of which involved the destruction of a priceless Roman bust, and several expletives were shouted at me by an enraged and very high-ranking member of the Norwegian Royal Family, who was none too pleased to be mentioned to the press by a _pornographer_. I will say that it is perhaps worth it, as it has removed two very awful men from public life. Alas, they will likely both be replaced soon. Just the same, quite a lot of work was done on behalf of a pathologist incorrectly described as 'mousy'." He cleared his throat. "I will say the portrait and the sketches are very nice indeed. Quite lovely, really. Good day, Doctor Hooper. It is always a pleasure to see you and I admit I was quite delighted to assist you, even if it was on the bequest of my nattering git of a brother."

He climbed into the car, growling at his brother to move over, and the car oozed away. Molly was left standing in the main street, holding the packet of her sketches in her hands and the wrapped portrait propped against her knees.

* * *

John kept an eye on Sherlock as the detective paced back and forth, looking tired and nervous all at once. He hadn't slept the night before (and probably several previous nights) and had spent hours playing his violin, staring out the window as he worked on a new composition. John was no expert on such things, but the new piece was lively and sweet-sounding, but with a poignancy that could only mean it was for (or perhaps _about_ ) someone who mattered.

"So… " John said. "Nice that Greg is going to marry that Olivia bird. They seem a good match. He even asked me to stand up with him, so I'll need to borrow your best man speech book."

"Mm."

"Even nicer of her to ask Molly to stand up with her. I still can't quite figure out how they would have met. Maybe Molly went to the Grayson House to look at the paintings being sold and they met there? They come from different ends of the social spectrum, but they do seem to click pretty well. Besides, I discovered last night that that woman can _cook_. I still don't know exactly what pulled pork is, but I want more."

Sherlock absently grabbed a biscuit and ate it before correcting something on the music sheet.

"When did you eat last?" John asked. "Aside from biscuits and tea?"

"Yesterday… ?"

"And when did you sleep?"

"Who needs sleep? I've things to do."

"On a new case?"

"Nope."

Sherlock growled when he played a bad note and went back over the part three times before he was satisfied. He did a few more revisions on the music sheet and nodded, looking pleased. Finally he put the violin down and sat down in his chair opposite John. He took up his prayer pose and sat, clearly withdrawing into his mind palace. John could only wait and hope it didn't take much longer, as he was hungry and Mary and Juliet were visiting a friend. He wasn't looking forward to trying to cook anything at Baker Street, considering what he might find in the refrigerator, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get takeaway.

"I have decided… "Sherlock said suddenly. "I have made a decision about my life, John."

"Oh?"

"I've decided to have one."

Watson's brow furrowed. "Aside from a lack of a real personal life, you do seem to have one, Sherlock."

"That's what I mean. I've decided I want a personal life. I'm just unclear on how to construct one."

"Well… what sort of personal life are you aiming for?"

Sherlock sat back, stretching his legs out. "Perhaps… a home, with someone here to… er… " He scratched the back of his neck. "Someone to come home to." He cleared his throat and John saw real anxiety in the man's eyes, if only for a brief, unguarded moment. "Someone who wouldn't mind me coming home to them, or perhaps coming home to me. Whichever way… " He frowned at John, who raised an eyebrow. "Seems best. Whichever seems best to… er… that person's… inclinations."

"You could get a cat."

Sherlock glared at him. "I said _someone_ , not some _thing_."

"Cats are living beings. You can allow yourself to call a cat 'someone'."

"No, you can't. Besides which, cats are devious, deceitful creatures."

John bit back a snicker. "You like Molly's cat."

Sherlock's reaction to hearing her name was just exactly what John thought it would be: he stiffened and looked away, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Only because that particular cat does possess good manners, is intelligent, and is uncharacteristically friendly."

 _Gotcha,_ John thought. "Right. Sort of like his owner, I suppose. Though if he were to _slap_ you he would leave scars. Like his tiny owner."

"Very likely," Sherlock said tightly. "Though she be but small, she is fierce."

John grinned. "Well, Shakespeare, you could get a dog."

"I don't want a dog. Already had one. If I were to get a pet, it would be a horse. Dogs look up to us, cats look down on us, but horses regard us as equals. Alas, horses cannot be kept in flats. They can, but it gets messy."

John nodded. He picked up the newspaper again and pretended to read. He waited several beats. "You could always get a girlfriend. You've legions of female fans, most of whom would be delighted to date Sherlock Holmes. How long they would be able to endure certain behaviors is debatable, of course, but we'd be going on individual tastes and levels of tolerance."

Sherlock said nothing. He cleared his throat. John waited several beats again.

"There are a few women in your personal circle, of course. Sally Donovan hates you, so she's out. Mrs Hudson is too many years your senior to be regarded as a candidate, and really, she's more of a mother hen. Janine would jump at the chance, but _you_ wouldn't—you're indifferent to her—I think she could prance in here naked as the day she was born and you'd just chew on a biscuit and ask her about the weather. Of course, there's Molly, but you treat her very badly and she might be weary now of her affections for you being not only spurned but even mocked."

"Spurned?" Sherlock squawked, and John lowered the paper to look at his friend. Sherlock looked aghast. "What did… I mean… you think I spurn her?"

"And have even mocked her. Of course, I will concede that you apologized for your appalling behavior during that disastrous Christmas party four years ago, which was _remarkable_ to say the least. And she's not afraid of you anymore, of course, as proved by her slapping you and giving you a sound ticking off, plus she helped you fake your own death, which means she can also really kill you if you annoy her enough. I've seen her tear into you at other times as well and I must say, she's got a great deal of steel in her spine now—I suppose we can, in some ways, credit you with making her start standing up for herself, though I give more credit to _her_ on that count. Perhaps if you're looking for a life that might include a relationship, you could pursue that line of interest and see where it goes. She'd be good for you—would keep you grounded, out of a good deal of trouble, and she would give your arse a sound kicking when needed. We all know it will."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. John, enjoying seeing his friend at a loss, continued. "Plus she's a pretty little thing, and she's as sharp as you, too. Perhaps not a genius, but more than your match at deducing. Considering her line of work she'd have to be, and I think sometimes you're a little jealous of her."

The detective looked flabbergasted. "Jeal—you think Molly is pretty?"

"Of course I do. And lately she's been dressing a little more… oh, what's the word? I'd call it sexy, perhaps, but that's a new concept with Molly, though it does suit her. She's got nice legs." He resumed reading. Sherlock frowned.

"And jealous? You think I'm jealous of Molly?"

"She's capable of love. She has friends. She gives a damn. Even about you, in spite of _you_. Other women would probably just want to shag you for a bit until you finally drive them away with your misanthropic behavior, but Molly knows you and isn't afraid to call you all sorts of names when you deserve it, and she calls you on the carpet when you behave like an annoying dick. Plus she'd take good care of you. She'd at least make sure you eat and drink and sleep."

The expression on Sherlock's face was so priceless John wished he had his camera. "She… knows me." He swallowed. "She sees me. Not many people can."

"She sure does. And perhaps she'd be willing to give it a go if you'd just let her in."

Sherlock straightened in the chair and crossed his knees, indicating he was ready to talk tactics, which Mary would say wouldn't quite do— _tactics_ were not what were required when pursuing a romantic relationship. Tactics had to go out the window, at least on the part of the man. The woman was allowed to scheme as much as she liked. "Well. Then tell me what I ought to do."

Surprised, John lowered the paper again. "You mean, you want to pursue Molly?"

"I am… open to possibilities."

"Mainly, you have some tall apologizing to do. Secondly, don't _plan_. Let things happen, though I would advise to let her set the pace."

"My shin can't take another apology," Sherlock said, looking rather glum.

"Hm?"

"She kicked me in the shin a few days ago."

"Did she? Good for her! I may need to contact the Army and ask them to present her with a medal."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "She deserves several."

"Aye, she does that. She deserves a great deal. Happiness, for instance, and kindness and _respect_. If you don't make your move soon, someone else might come along and see what a treasure she is and snatch her right up. Then you'll have to live here alone in your mind palace, sans horse, cat or dog. For some reason, I don't think that mind palace of yours is a particularly _happy_ place."

Sherlock glared at him. "It's… necessary."

"Probably." Off Sherlock's haughty glare, John shrugged. "All right, for your _work_ , yes, but people don't belong in a mind palace, particularly the people you love. You certainly don't need to live there all the time, and you don't need to live here alone. Hell, even Mycroft has a woman, and he's even less likeable than you. I suspect she kicks his arse when he needs it, and if he's got any sense he appreciates it." John got up. "I have to go get something to eat and I am not opening that refrigerator since you came in this morning with that suspicious-looking rucksack with what I _hope_ was just a bowling ball inside. Do you want anything?"

"No."

"Not food, anyway, eh? Maybe a little pathologist instead." He handed the newspaper to Sherlock. "Lestrade's wedding is Saturday morning. I can't see them kicking you out of the reception, anyway, so if Molly won't talk to you before then I'd suggest giving that a go. If she will talk to you, she might tolerate you as her date to the wedding."

"Tolerate… ?"

"Endure?"

"Bugger off, John. I need to think."

John tapped Sherlock's forehead. "Not with _that_ , you dithering prat. Use that thing in your chest. If it's there."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't have that anymore."

"I know. It belongs to Molly."

* * *

Her mother had been upset about the nudes, of course, but she had been even more upset with Emma for trying to embarrass Molly about them. A long discussion, over hot cocoa and roasted chicken, had left things a little more calm and Molly was glad to be home, sleeping in her old bed, sitting up late with her mother and eating popcorn, watching favorite old movies. She and her mother still loved _Soapdish_ and could quote the dialog word-for-word ("At the current rate of inflation, her brain will laterally explore…"), and they had laughed their way through _The Princess Bride_ again ("That word you keep on using… I do not think it means what you think it means.") and reveled in _Strictly Ballroom_ yet again. They had popped in _The Black Stallion_ and marveled again at the exquisite beauty of the black Arabian stallion, the gorgeous scenery and the lush soundtrack. Tonight it was British Costume Drama Night.

"Which do you want to watch, sweetheart? _Persuasion_ or do you think you can stay up for all of _Wives & Daughters_? I know I could. I'll never get enough of Anthony Howell… yum!" She held up the two DVD boxes. "Poor Tom Hollander. I can't help thinking he looks rather… simian."

Molly smiled. " _Wives & Daughters_, for certain. _Persuasion_ is for rainy days."

"Quite true. I'll get the popcorn going."

"I'm surprised you don't like _Foyle's War_ as much," Molly said when her mother returned with two bowls of popcorn.

"Oh, it's all right, but there's no romance in that series, and I've never had an urge to shag Michael Kitchen."

Molly giggled. "Mum!"

"I'm a widow, sweetheart, not dead. Granted, if you put me in a bedroom with Anthony Howell, you'd be peeling me off the ceiling. Now. Speaking of romance… I know you ended things with Tom… is there anything new going on?"

"No." Molly put the first DVD in and waited for the series to queue up. "Nothing to report."

Sarah Hooper sighed and studied her daughter for a moment. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me all?"

"It's all right, Mum. I'm okay. I've got my cat and my work."

Sarah made a _hrmph_ sound but held her tongue. Molly knew what her mother was thinking—a career wouldn't keep her warm at night or draw her barely-recognizable pictures of horses, and a cat was hardly a replacement for a husband. A career would get her a gold watch upon retirement and an empty flat. They had had that discussion a hundred times and while Sarah respected her daughter's choices, she could not make herself agree with them.

They settled in to enjoy the miniseries, reveling in the story of sweet, uncomplicated, trustworthy Molly Gibson and her father's new, selfish and vain wife Hyacinth and her flirtatious and thoughtless but good-hearted new stepsister Cynthia. They smiled at Squire Hamley's blustering _bonhomie_ and his heartfelt grief at losing his beloved wife. They sympathized with poor Osbourne's secrets and adored Roger's solid decency. The scene where the Hamley boys were having dinner with the Gibsons was just starting when the doorbell rang.

"Who on earth would that be at this hour?" Sarah said, getting up. "Oh, dear, I hope it's not Olivia having second thoughts!"

"That would never happen. She adores Greg," Molly said, watching as Molly Gibson awkwardly played the piano and watched Roger flirt with Cynthia. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, sighing sadly and thinking of Sherlock again. As if even the romantic ups and downs of Molly Gibson could make Molly Hooper forget about _him._

"Molly, luv, there's a man here to see you."

Puzzled, Molly stood and was stunned to see Sherlock striding into the room as though he owned it. Sarah dogged his steps, clearly unaccustomed to having her home invaded by an intense stranger. She glared at him as Sarah finally got in front of him and held her ground, herding him back like a skilled cow pony and clearly annoying him.

"Excuse me, sir, but who on earth are you and why are you here to see my daughter?"

He glanced briefly at the television, brow furrowing slightly. Obviously he had never seen the series. He looked at Molly again, and she put her hands on her hips. "Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes, who is leaving."

"I am not leaving until I'm ready to leave."

"If Molly wants you to leave, you will do so," Sarah said firmly. He barely glanced at her though, and settled his gaze on Molly again. "If need be we will even call the police."

"The local constabulary consists of a portly man with a lifelong tobacco habit that does him no good and an elderly bloodhound named Buford whose sniffing days are long past, though he is still quite excellent at eating. I'll be back in London by the time he wakes up, dresses and gets over here. Listen, Molly. I know I screwed it up. I will never be good at saying things I should, much less saying them _right_ , but at no point did I ever intend to hurt you or to insult you. My behavior was wrong and stupid and… excuse me, who are you?" he said, looking at Sarah at last, who was still standing between him and Molly and showing no sign of budging.

"I am Molly's mother," Sarah answered shortly, glaring up at him.

"Oh. Right. Yes." He bowed slightly to Sarah. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"My… my what?" Sarah asked.

"Your husband died, did he not? Cancer?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "That was ten years ago, Sherlock. She's dating the local vicar!"

"Ah. Well. Still, I am sorry for your loss and sincerely hope things work out with the vicar. You and your husband had a very… remarkable daughter together. I would say two remarkable daughters, but the older one is considerably less so, as evidenced by her recent appalling behavior."

Sarah looked even more bewildered. Molly sighed and grabbed the remote control and paused the DVD at Squire Hamley telling his sons that he'd rather keep snakes in the house than hire a French maid for his wife. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"To speak with you. Alone." He paused, then looked at Sarah. "If you don't mind, Mrs Hooper."

Sarah looked between her daughter and Sherlock, clearly uncertain.

"If you hear shouting, it will likely be me, as your daughter has remarkable slapping and kicking skills," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off Molly.

Finally, Molly gestured to her mother and nodded toward the door. Sarah left quietly, looking back at Molly with a clearly confused and distressed expression. Sherlock and Molly eyed each other, him wary, her strangely calm. He finally stepped forward.

"I know that I've hurt you many times in the past, Molly. I've said terrible, awful things to you and I have taken advantage of you. I'm not good at apologizing, anyway, but of all the people I know, you are the one person I know that I can trust without even the slightest inkling of doubt. I am also completely convinced that I would not even be standing here now if it weren't for you, Molly."

She crossed her arms and eyed him coolly. "I know."

He stepped closer. She held her ground.

"And if you're thinking that I kissed you because suddenly I realized that I needed to… to show my gratefulness, or was just stringing you along again, you could not be more incorrect. I kissed you because I wanted to… and it wasn't because of the pictures either. Because while I did like them a great deal, I much prefer the real thing. Fully clothed, of course, at least for now."

She blushed but continued to look him in the eye.

"I'm not here out of any expectation to see you… er… I mean, I just wanted to apologize for apologizing and to say that I will never regret… that."

"Kissing me."

"Yes."

She drew in her breath and looked him square in the eye. "I will not be your doormat, Sherlock. I will not procure specimens for you any more without express permission from my superiors. You will not pay me insincere compliments, either, and you will be polite to my friends and family or a kick to the shin will be the _least_ of your troubles."

"What if I paid you a sincere compliment?"

She shook her head.

"Let me try. All right?"

That made her start laughing.

"I should perhaps mention your legs, which are quite nice. I am quite serious when I say that, in your case, the mini skirt has its benefits."

"You like my legs?"

"Well, yes. I do."

"Hm."

"And I have always been quite astonished by your intelligence and ability to read me."

"Read… ?"

"Yes. You read me. You see me. You see me right through all my most horrendous actions and my bad manners and arrogant assumption that I had you wrapped around my finger, and perhaps in some ways I did and probably still do, but the odd thing is that you have me wrapped around yours. That's quite an entanglement, don't you think?"

"Yes, but I'm not manipulative or selfish," she said, lifting her chin.

"I'm… you think I'm manipulative?"

"You've used my feelings for you to your own advantage, and very callously. I will not tolerate that any more, Sherlock."

He paused, drawing in his breath and slowly exhaling. "And I am sorry for that, Molly."

"Not that it stopped me feeling that way. That's why I ended it with Tom, because I didn't… feel that way about him. Never could."

"Oh, you mean Meat Dagger? Well, I was frankly grateful to hear you had dumped him, and I was genuinely grateful for the lack of a ring the day you slapped me. Or… wait, he didn't dump you did he, because with one phone call I can have him assassinated, as someone that monumentally stupid cannot be permitted to contribute to the gene pool."

"I dumped him," Molly said, sighing. "I told him the truth. He wasn't happy but then I wasn't either. I was still carrying that ridiculous torch for you."

He pursed his lips, thinking. She suspected the entire concept was beyond Sherlock's scope, but wasn't up for explaining it all. Not yet.

"Should I be glad to hear that? Or has the torch been… extinguished?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, his expression cautious.

"I don't know. I'm still in shock over the pictures, actually. I'm guessing you got Mycroft and that woman to buy them?"

"Er… well, not exactly. Others were involved in the process. Mycroft only got involved because someone ordered him to and between those two sources, he didn't stand a chance." He cleared his throat. "I really didn't know about it until the next day."

"Oh." Molly looked down. "I do appreciate that. And I appreciate what you did. Or tried to do. But if you're expecting me just forgive you for years of what would technically be called _abuse_ , you're dead wrong. It wasn't about the pictures, it wasn't about the kiss… I've just decided that I deserve to be treated with respect. I've worked hard for it, and I won't give it up for anyone. Not even you."

He stepped a little closer. "So you're saying you have to be finessed?"

"Something to that effect. You can go now."

"But you will speak to me now?"

"Go, Sherlock."

"Molly… "

"I said go, Sherlock. I'm watching a movie."

"Which one?"

" _Wives & Daughters_."

"Oh. Michael Gambon's in that one, I think. Might I stay and watch it with you?"

"No. It's me and Mum, only."

"What about your horrid sister?"

"She likes action movies."

"Well, then I suppose she loves the helicopter crash in _Pride & Prejudice_."

"Out, Sherlock."

"Will you be my date for Garson's wedding?"

"Greg's wedding," she said, shaking her head. "And no. I already have a date."

"Well, then I'll pick—wait, what?" He looked bewildered. "A date… ?"

"Yes. A date. Lord Norris asked me."

"Lord sodding _Norris_?"

"Yes. Lord Alistair Norris, though everyone just calls him Alec. He's very nice. What's wrong with him?"

Sherlock cast about for something about Lord Norris that he found unpleasant or unworthy. But the man had a sterling reputation, was good-natured and actually worked for a living besides his diligent involvement in Victims No More and other worthy causes. Even more, he was closer to Molly's age, was good-looking, athletic and educated to match his level of intelligence, and if his marks at university had been any indication, Norris was a bleeding _genius_.

"He'll… he's… he wears torn dungarees and ratty jumpers and has cow dung on his boots," Sherlock said loftily.

"Somehow I can't see him wearing any of those to Greg and Olivia's wedding. Not even she would tolerate such a thing, and she's the most tolerant person I know after my Mum. She tolerates many things but there are some things she would never condone, and cow dung at a wedding cannot be countenanced."

"He might! He might arrive to pick you up in a Land Rover with busted-out windows, covered with… with hay and pig excrement and wielding a… an emasculator."

"Just so. I'm going with him."

Sherlock was utterly floored. "But… wait, is this… I don't understand… I thought… "

"You think too much. It doesn't always help you, Sherlock. I'm going with Lord Alec Norris to Olivia's wedding. He's a very nice man, he asked me to go with him, I said yes, and that's that. You are more than free to attend the reception, of course, but the church only holds about fifty people and most of them will be Olivia's family. I'll see you Saturday afternoon, if I'm not too busy, at the Mason & Dixie Café."

Sarah returned then, having been unable to bear it any longer. She looked between Molly and Sherlock, clearly curious but determined to not interfere. Just the same, she saw the confusion on the man's face. "Mr Holmes, it's nice of you to drop by, I suppose, but it does look like your discussion with my daughter is over."

"Like bloody hell it is," Sherlock growled. He scowled, then stepped forward, nudged Sarah out of the way and kissed Molly firmly. Sarah gasped in shock at seeing her daughter being kissed so thoroughly in her living room, but she held her tongue. Molly's hand tentatively reached up to touch his hair, and he deepened the kiss, clearly unconcerned that he was kissing her right in front of her mother.

"Good heavens!" Sarah said. "Do I need to get a bucket of water, Mr Holmes?"

He didn't care. He pulled Molly closer, slipping his arm gently but firmly around her waist. Molly's arms slowly wreathed around his neck and he went on kissing her, reveling in her sweet softness and the _rightness_ and strength and courage of her. Finally, Sarah cleared her throat loudly and he stepped back. For a moment, he and Molly stared at each, both a little bemused.

"I am not going to apologize for that!" he said firmly. "Good night, Molly. I will see you at the reception." He turned on his heel, gave Sarah a perfunctory nod and stalked out of the room. They heard the front door slam and Sarah turned to look at her daughter. Molly's face was flushed and her eyes were bright, but she calmly sat down on the couch again and hit 'play' again on the DVD. Osbourne was telling Roger that Aimee was with child, his joy tempered by his fear of what his father would say on the matter.

"I really do love this series," Molly said, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Sarah tentatively sat down beside her and grabbed a handful of popcorn. "It's just so... _beautiful_ , with such human characters. I _adore_ Molly, but Squire Hamley… what a funny, blustery, sweet man. I just love it when he tells Mr Gibson about his visit with Mrs Gibson. 'One of us was silly, and it wasn't me'. That just cracks me up, every time and I've seen it at least a hundred times." She smiled. "And I cry my eyes out when he screams over Osbourne's body. It's just so heartbreaking."

"Yes. Yes, I love it, too, sweetheart, but… what on earth just happened there?"

Molly shrugged. "Just catching," she said softly, resting her chin on her forearms.

"Catching _what_?" Sarah asked, exasperated.

"My dream."

* * *

"I've never seen a wedding like that," Mary said. "So… organized."

"Mrs Cowan could, I think, run the entire United States government and still have time to arrange a Junior League banquet in Mobile, see the silver is polished and get her nails done," Molly laughed. "It was amazing—Olivia and her mother had everything arranged in less than a week!"

"And all under budget, too. I still shudder when I think of what was spent on my wedding," Mary said, shaking her head. "Mrs Cowan told me it comes from having learned at the feet of her mother and grandmother—they taught her frugality, creativity and how to put on a show to rival anything on Broadway. Oh, the food is out!" Mary, having been introduced recently to the cooking at the American-owned restaurant, quickly made her way through the crowd to check out the buffet. Molly sat down and took her shoes off, knowing the bride and groom wouldn't be arriving for a few more minutes.

"Molly."

She looked up, recognizing that deep voice, and met Sherlock's gaze. He was in a sharp suit and tie and looked _tired_. She wondered if he had been sleeping or even eating. John wasn't around as much to remind him about such things, and Mrs Hudson wasn't allowed to use weapons as proper motivation. "Sherlock."

"Is your _date_ with you?"

"Of course." She looked back and smiled warmly at Lord Norris, who was chatting with Olivia's brothers, and when he caught her eye he made his way over and, after greeting Sherlock politely, sat down.

Sherlock glowered at Lord Norris but said nothing.

"You should try some of the stuff they've got on the buffet," Norris told Molly. "It's fantastic. Tonight, what with the cold weather, they're going to make chili. I've never had chili, and I'm intrigued with the notion of something called 'Frito pie'."

"I'm sure it's wonderful," Molly smiled. "Sherlock, perhaps you'll actually eat something today?"

He growled something and stalked away, clearly miffed. She shrugged. Lord Norris leaned forward. "You don't think he's going to attack me, do you?"

"I can't imagine him doing that at a wedding." She paused, thinking that over—Sherlock had no social skills, almost no manners, and on an empty stomach and seething jealousy, he might do something… or anything… _rash_. Mary had kept her up to speed, in the past few days, on Sherlock's explosive temper, mumblings, growls, shouts, and, in one particularly interesting display of pique, a full-blown tantrum while ordering Chinese takeaway at three in the morning. He had also gotten into a heated argument with the pathologist covering for Molly while she was visiting her mother and loudly informed the poor, quaking man that he was a mere shadow of Molly Hooper's brilliance and should be ashamed of himself for being such a sorry specimen. According to John, he had gotten into a yelling match with Mycroft before being dragged away to the theatre to watch a performance of _Oklahoma!_ with his parents, and had returned home needing a hot water bottle for his head and a bottle of whisky to drown the memory of such a trauma.

"Eh… what's the worst that can happen?" Norris said.

Molly swallowed and remembered poor Helen Louise. "Well… " She peered around Norris and saw Sherlock exchanging words with… oh, no… Olivia's father. She scrabbled back into her shoes and rushed over. "Sherlock, this is Mr Cowan. Jack Cowan."

Sherlock eyed the man silently as his eyebrows lifted. "I see."

Jack Cowan eyed Sherlock for a moment, and Molly wondered what they had been disputing over. Sherlock, however, seemed to have forgotten entirely about the American and focused on her. Mr Cowan looked between them and seemed amused.

"I have to say, the two of you probably make a wonderful person," he said, taking a sip of sparkling non-alcoholic champagne. "Friends of the groom, eh?"

"Hm?" Molly said, dragging her gaze away from Sherlock. "Oh. Yes. Both actually. Greg is a very dear friend, and Olivia is a good friend to me already. She helped me through a recent… difficulty and it was so nice of her to ask me to be her maid of honor."

"She does that. Ask her sometime about a difficulty she handled for a journalist who needed to get out of Iran." He grinned, bowed very slightly to Molly, and left them alone by the punchbowl.

They stood staring at each other, he admiring her soft blue silk dress and high heels, she dazzled by his sharp suit and tie. He looked good in his Belstaff and scarf, but when he dressed like he'd just stepped out of the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, he was something else entirely.

"You look… nice."

"Remember what I told you about insincere compliments."

"I'm not being insincere. You look nice. Smashing legs."

"Been drinking?"

"Why can't I pay you a compliment and not have you think it's something other than that?"

"Because you're a high-functioning sociopath with almost no manners?"

He huffed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair. "Molly, I will never be good at such things, but I am being _very_ sincere when I say that I think you look nice and that you have nice legs!" His voice rose to a near shout, and he stomped, which caused many people in the restaurant to turn and look at him. "Yes!" he snapped, glaring around the room. "I think Molly Hooper looks beautiful and I also think she's bloody brilliant and I am trying to pursue her but she is being _very_ uncooperative!"

"Will you calm down?" she hissed between clenched teeth.

"No, I will not!" he growled. "I will not calm down! I've had it, Molly! I'm here on my best behavior and you're here with a… a… _boring_ but nice man when I know he's not what you want nor is he your type!"

"Gee, thanks," Lord Norris muttered, having sauntered over to provide protection, though he didn't seem certain about who he was supposed to protect.

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered. "You're being ridiculous!"

"That's because I am ridiculous! I've always been ridiculous, and I'll always be so, but I want to be ridiculous with you, dammit!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!"

Molly and Sherlock both jumped, startled, and barely had time to recover themselves when Greg and Olivia came into the room, arm in arm, smiling.

"For the first time in public, let me introduce Mr and Mrs Gregory Lestrade!"

Sherlock growled in frustration and turned away. Everyone applauded, smiling and laughing with the handsome groom and lovely bride. The newly-minted couple made their way to their table, and everyone sat down. Molly took her place at the bridal party's table, beside John, and glanced across the room at Sherlock, who had at least found a place to sit and sulk. Greg's sons and little daughter wiggled in their chairs but were well-behaved, needing only a gentle shushing when the minister led a prayer before everyone dove into the wedding breakfast. Molly was pleased to see Sherlock at least eating a little.

Speeches were made, everyone enjoyed their meals immensely, and finally the band began playing. First a very talented singer from America performed _The Book of Love_ , to which Greg and Olivia danced alone, and then, inevitably, the familiar first strains of _Sweet Home Alabama_ brought everyone out onto the dance floor. Molly laughed with Lord Norris as they danced together, and quite enjoyed grooving to other merry but unfamiliar American tunes: _Dixie Fried_ and _The South's Gonna Do It Again_ and a few others before things finally slowed down as the evening wore on. She frequently looked over at Sherlock's table to see him sitting alone, nursing a glass of champagne and very definitely not joining in the revelries. She knew, of course, that a party was torture for him, but he had come to the reception of his own volition.

She was relieved to sit down at last, her feet hurting a good bit, and accepted Lord Norris' offer to get her some water. She snagged a few strawberries and a bit of sugar and settled down to rest a bit, watching everyone dancing and having a truly fantastic time. No one had gotten drunk, no fights had broken out, and Olivia's brothers seemed to have found Greg up to snuff. John's speech had gone well, as he had spoken highly of Lestrade's abilities as a detective and his excellent character (and ability to cope with 'consulting detectives'), and Molly had given a short speech thanking Olivia for selecting her as maid of honor and for becoming such a good friend in such a short period of time.

Suddenly there was a loud thumping noise on the microphone and the dancing stopped. Everyone looked up and Molly was horrified to see Sherlock standing there, violin in hand. He paused, swallowing, and forged ahead.

"I am not part of the wedding party. In fact, I am not one would ever considering inviting to any party. But I have something I wish to present to a member of the bridal party."

"Oh, dear God," she heard John mutter.

"In case some of you don't know me, I am Sherlock Holmes. I am a friend… I guess… of the groom and a friend of the best man, John Watson. But this is not for either of them. This is for the maid of honor, Molly Hooper, whom I love."

He settled the violin on his chin and, after testing the strings once, began playing. No one made a sound as the detective performed the tune. It was a light, soft melody, with sweet but firm tones. The tune was beautiful, restrained, gentle and elegant, like its subject, touched with a feistiness that anyone could see perfectly suited Molly's spirit, and everyone was watching her reaction to the music. It ended, not with a dramatic flourish but with a quiet, hopeful question, and he stood for a moment before lowering the violin. Every eye in the room moved from Sherlock to Molly, who didn't remember standing up. But she was on her bare feet, staring at him in astonishment.

"So that's what he's been playing these past two weeks!" John whispered to Greg. "It was driving me mad! I've been humming it in the shower!"

Sherlock cleared his throat, nodded, and stepped off the stage. Molly didn't move, but watched him approach her slowly, oblivious to their rapt audience.

"Please forgive me, Molly," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I have been the most hideous, selfish, monstrous and unmitigated ass to you, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you."

She bit her lip. Lord Norris, still holding her glass of ice water, looked amused.

"Come on, lass, you can't turn him down now. He wrote you a song!"

"Wh-what is the song called?" she whispered.

"Well… er… rather unimaginative, I admit, but just… _Molly's Song_ ," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not good at naming tunes. I often mishear lyrics, even. For years I thought the Beach Boys were telling Rhonda to help them because owls kept puking in their bed, and Juice Newton wanted her departing lover to brush her teeth before he left her. Maybe you can name the tune."

She started laughing, her vision blurring through her tears. "Of course I forgive you, Sherlock," she said. "Of course I do."

He exhaled. "So would you like to… "

"Help you solve crimes?"

"… dance?"

"Wait… dance?" She looked up at him, startled.

"Yes. But I think that, in John's all-too-frequent absences, you could also help me solve crimes if you like. If you will indulge me, you'll be spending a great deal of time at Baker Street anyway." He held out his hand. The band had taken its place again and the singer was consulting with the bride on what to perform next. The singer smiled and stepped up to the microphone as Sherlock and Molly moved together to the dance floor. Everyone else joined them, and the party continued to the sweet lyrics of an old George Jones classic.

 _Take me, take me to your darkest room  
Close every window and bolt every door  
The very first moment, I heard your voice  
I'd be in darkness no more_

 _Take me to your most barren desert  
a thousand miles from the nearest sea  
The very moment, I saw your smile  
it would be just like heaven to me_

 _There's not any mountain too rugged to climb  
No desert too barren to cross  
Darlin', if you would just show a sign  
of love, I could bear with all loss_

 _Take me to Siberia  
and the coldest weather of the winter time  
and it would be just like spring in California  
as long as I knew you were mine_

 _Yes, it would be just like spring in California  
As long as I knew you were mine  
Take me, take me_

"Looks like he's been caught," Olivia told Greg as they danced together, swaying to the romantic, heartfelt song.

"Eh?"

She smiled. "It's all right. I'll explain it all later." She kissed her new husband and embraced him. "You're in the same honey trap, sweetheart, and I'm never going to let you go."

"Good God, I hope not."

Olivia looked at Molly, whose head was on Sherlock's shoulder, and the two women exchanged knowing grins. The singer suggested livening things up, and began singing _Shut Up and Kiss Me_. By then, however, the maid of honor and the world's only consulting detective had left the party for some much-needed time alone. They had much to discuss, starting with where she ought to hang her portrait (he firmly held his ground on placing it over the mantelpiece) and ending with what to name their first baby. Molly stuck to her guns on their first son being name John, but he had no objections on their first daughter being named Olivia.


End file.
